


Howling Through

by Chex (provetheworst)



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dubious Science, M/M, Magic, Magic and Science, Monsters, such very dubious science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:47:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provetheworst/pseuds/Chex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being An Account Of the Unfortunate Happenings of the Spring of 1630, Chiefly Focused on the Adventures of Young Magician Harold Styles In His Efforts to Save the City of London from the Otherworldly Threat. (Or, the fic where Harry is a magician and Nick runs a magic shop and then there's monsters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Howling Through

**Author's Note:**

> Gentle reader, a word of caution: one main character does experience a pretty bad injury at one point, but then magic happens.
> 
> Also, my beta reader abandoned the story halfway through, so there's that.

A cold wind blows, cutting through from some parallel plane. Harry puts a hand to his ear, but there’s no message carried on this particular movement in the air.

Just the first signs of a storm front. That’s not too surprising, in the early spring like this, when cold and hot are still dueling it out, the fronts meeting and clashing. London herself creates weather currents, too, with the warmth of houses and factories and forges and bakeries. 

The millions of lives happening inside the city provide their own warmth, and the weft of the world is bright here with more threads than can be accurately counted or tracked. 

For all that, it’s still chilly to Harry’s tastes. Most of the warmth is more a poetic, metaphorical thing for which the weather has little regard. The grey buildings huddle dourly around him, and the streets are startlingly quiet save for the call of gulls circling overhead, and the soft coo of pigeons.

Harry pulls his coat closer, tucks his hands back into his pockets, and hurries on to the little cafe where he’s meeting everyone for lunch.

Three years on and he’s as close with his friends as ever, though all of them have friends here of their own by now, little places they probably keep secret from each other.

There’s a chip shop near Harry’s flat, for example, that he’s told none of the boys about. They’ve learned the benefits of privacy, no longer living on top of each other. Zayn will disappear for days; Niall begs off meetings now and again because of prior obligations, plans made with the rest of the London-Irish scene. Louis spends his time with Eleanor, the two of them with their own private world between them. Liam has Danielle, as well as his dog.

Not that Harry hasn’t used excuses of his own - Caroline took him under her wing, showed him ways to work magic he’d never have come up with on his own, helped him understand things he’d never quite understood learning under Simon.

She taught him other things, too, and Harry’s grateful for it all. Things with her aren’t so rosy lately, so Harry doesn’t have her as an excuse not to show up when the lads want to go someplace together. 

By the time he gets to the cafe, everyone’s already inside where it’s warm and boisterous, and Harry feels a shiver of - pride, almost, happiness of some degree or another, seeing the other four all together, heightened when Louis looks up first and waves him over.

“Harry, there you are!”

“Here I am!” Harry laughs, throws his arms up in the air, then drops them sheepishly, ducking out of the way of a woman trying to leave as he’s stood in front of the door. He lopes his way to the table, folds himself into a chair.

“Took you long enough,” Niall says, reaching over to hit him on the shoulder. He sits back and twirls a finger in the air, unfurling Harry’s scarf and calling it over, and lets the magic drop as he wraps it ‘round his own neck. “Price you pay for being late!”

“Now he’s going to freeze,” Liam says. “You’ve just doomed Harold to an icy fate.”

“Have not,” Niall says. “He should have known better. He can pull up his coat. Hide in it like he thinks he’s famous.”

“Heyy.” Harry ducks his head, smiling anyway. It’s been barely a week, and he’s missed them all.

“Done anything exciting lately, Harry?” Zayn asks. “Any more breakthroughs?”

“Nah, nothing,” Harry says, but that sets Louis off, resuming an in-progress story from before Harry had shown up. Harry settles in and listens.

Outside, it starts raining. They stay long enough that it doesn’t matter. As the five of them tumble into the street, splitting off in their own directions, there are still puddles lurking in the cracks and dips of the pavement, but the rain itself has stopped.

Harry wanders the streets alone, sticking to the edge of the pavement. The awnings are still dripping. The air’s chilly, edges of puddles considering frost, and sometimes Harry thinks spring may never actually come, except there’s green starting to show on the trees and grass trying to grow up between back-alley cobblestones in defiance of the over-long winter.

The street’s lit, faintly, by the dancing glow of fairy light, and here and there the steadier flame of gas light instead, a patchwork of magic slowly ceding ground to progress.

Harry hurries down the stairs to the nearest tube, fare in hand; he hasn’t paid since his first month here, when he learned how to fake a ticket well enough to pass any random ticket checks. It’s the one nice thing about being a student of a discipline that’s falling out of favor - no one bothers to suspect him. 

There’s a whole section of the car that’s deserted, except for one lone shabby figure. The other side is packed with people, all studiously avoiding that side, so Harry goes over and sits down in an empty seat, eyeing all the empty space about him.

There’s a weird hum inside Harry’s head, only audible on this side of the car, and he can’t focus on the other person’s face, if they’re a human at all. They could still be a person, in a technical sense - mermaids and the like are people, after all, not that whatever’s sitting across from him could be a mermaid.

Harry closes his eyes, and with his hands picks at the air, examining the weave of the world around him. It’s like that other figure’s threads are frayed, wearing out like a shirt in need of patching.

Harry could try fixing it, but he doesn’t want to interfere, especially since he’s never seen this before. This whole side of the train feels like one big, frayed weak spot. That’s probably what’s keeping everyone away, even if they don’t know it. The train stops at Whitechapel and the car nearly empties.

An alien presence seems to loom forward, like it’s crawling across the loosely-woven strands, picking its way toward Harry, and he feels like it’s hanging right in front of him with huge, dagger-like limbs poised -

Harry snaps his eyes open, but the figure hasn’t moved from its spot. It has a drab grey cloak hiding its face from view; rags wrap its feet and its arms are hidden by over-long sleeves that hang in tatters past whatever hands it might have. The shape is close to human, but not quite. There are four limbs, that Harry can tell, and a head that rises above the torso.

Harry stares at it, and can’t know whether or not it stares back. Something scratches lightly at the back of his mind, real enough to feel like a physical touch. He starts to stand, move forward, but then they’re at Shoreditch, and hearing his stop announced makes the haze thin out. He needs to get off the train.

Moving feels like he’s been hooked on a fishing line, and he only just manages to struggle free of the wicked hook that’s got him. The train doors close behind him, and the vehicle carries on, and he allows himself a moment before going home, his head pounding now, overwhelmed by the sudden return of clarity.

He has a tiny one-room flat of his own up in Shoreditch, though returning there doesn’t feel like going home. Up until two weeks ago, he was still staying with Caroline.

Staying there alone takes getting used to, and Harry isn’t used to it yet. The flat is small and dark, with one little window. So far, Harry’s furniture includes a mattress, a table, and a few wooden crates he found in an alleyway. Not the most inspirational of places, but at least it’s his alone.

After his ride on the tube, he really, really doesn’t want to be alone. Going to see the others would require a fair bit of travel, though, either walking or taking the tube again or hiring a carriage. One of those requires effort and the others require money or another faked fare, and Harry can’t be bothered.

Instead, he lies down, stares up at the ceiling and falls asleep, only to dream of being stalked, relentlessly, by something that stays just out of sight, humming at the corners of his vision.

When he wakes up again, it’s still the middle of the night, and he feels chilled. He’s kicked his blanket off, so he pulls it up off the floor and wraps himself in it again, and doesn’t get back to sleep until it’s nearly dawn.

The next day, Harry doesn’t have any actual obligations. None of them pressing enough that he can be bothered, anyway. A friend of a friend wants her fortune told, and Harry’s decent enough at reading the patterns in people’s pasts to make guesses at their futures, so he might do, eventually. Him and Caroline have a research project they’re still working on, but - much as he misses her - he doesn’t quite feel like seeing her today, either.

That leaves Harry’s own hobbies. He could read, or practice guitar, maybe. He ends up lying in bed ‘till it’s nearly noon, then decides he may as well do his shopping with what’s left of the day.

Lying in like that’s made him feel a bit grotty, so he showers first, stumbling into the city streets with his hair still damp and squinting against the bright, clear daylight of early spring. For once, the sky’s blue, mostly clear, here and there salted white or grey with clouds and billows of factory smoke.

The brightness only barely alleviates yesterday’s chill, though Harry guesses today will be warmer than the last. Tentatively, he tips his head skyward, to check the air currents. There’s a bit of a warm front just outside of the city, but it’s like it can’t be bothered coming in.

The first stop is a bakery, where Harry buys himself a loaf of bread that he eats on his way to a bookstore, which he skulks through furtively without buying anything. He wastes some time flipping through books before deciding there’s nothing worth spending money on, no matter how tempting some of the books are.

Then, finally feeling awake and ready for the day, shaking off his usual slouch, he gets on the Northern Line - the train free of unsettling beasts this time - makes his transfer at Camden, and rides ‘till Mornington Crescent, then wends his way toward a tiny shop near Regent’s Park.

It is very slightly warmer by the time he gets off the tube, and he tugs his coat off, carries it folded over one arm. The afternoon’s late enough that he has to dodge around gaggles of schoolchildren in their uniforms on the way to his final errand of the day.

He cuts down one diagonal street, past brightly-painted row houses before turning onto another street, crosses over to avoid a cadre of angels and then crosses back once they’re out of sight, before finally coming to The Shop.

The Shop has been there for at least three hundred years, and supposedly had another location before that, though no one’s quite sure. Rumor is the original founder came down past Hadrian’s Wall, which is somehow the most plausible story about the place.

It’s never had a better name, either - one or two of its owners have tried renaming it, but the new sign always ends up falling off or getting stolen or struck by lightning or burning, while The Shop itself remains intact as ever.

When Harry first came to London, it was run by a fellow named Moyles, but he stepped down from the position almost a year ago. Now it’s run by Nick, who doesn’t seem to actually own the place, but does a good enough job keeping it in order. Every few years, someone else takes over - there’s been decade-long runs where it’s been owned by the same person, but lately the shop’s been a bit more finnicky.

The only sign on the building reads “SHOP” in large block letters. The front of the building is painted a cheery blue today, though Harry’s fairly certain it was a rusty orange just last week. There is no helpful subtitle to the name, explaining what’s sold inside; not once has Harry seen the shop take out an advert or do any promotion whatsoever. 

And yet it’s still quite possibly the most successful magic supply shop in the whole of England. Inside, there’s row upon row of shelves, burdened with herbs and tinctures and potions, parts of mythical beasts, and - in the back - actual mythical beasts, though only small ones, kept in cages and crates. 

There are books along one wall, treatises on theory and practice, inexorable texts on the history of magic, guides on etiquette when interacting with faeries and djinn and all manner of books of varying quality attempting to put forth natural histories of unicorns and gryphons and kappa; leather-bound tomes on unified theory and radical texts claiming to have solved the same; ragged pamphlets exhorting the reality of temporal manipulation and evidence of the same in recent and far-distant political events; and neatly printed journals on the manipulation of sound and light.

There are pendants and amulets and meteorites, bits of string in all colors, iron chains for the binding or warding off of fairies, jewelry in silver and gold imbued with all manner of charms of dubious origin and quality.

A pair of the same schoolchildren Harry saw earlier are skulking around in wide-eyed wonder, attempting to evade notice. Harry eyes them suspiciously, but the pair hunch over a book, their whispered conversation devolving into hot debate over something-or-other, and Harry leaves them be.

At the counter, Nick Grimshaw, current proprietor of The Shop and one of Harry’s favorite people in all London, is arguing with a frustrated American, judging by the man’s accent.

“You can’t seriously be telling me this is twenty pounds,” the American says, picking a bottle up off the counter. “I could get this for ten bucks back in the Americas!”

“Pity you’re not in the Americas, then,” Nick says, almost apologetic. He’s avoided frustration thus far, apparently. “Look, it’s imported. If you want cheaper, we’ve got more, next shelf down from where you found that one -”

“The others look like crap,” the American says, slapping some coins down on the counter. “I’m gonna give you - we’ll call it five pounds. That’s like ten dollars, okay? Are we even?”

“No, we’re not even,” Nick says. “Did someone tell you we haggle here?”

Nick does, in fact, usually haggle. Harry’s not going to say anything.

“Fuckin’ …” The American shakes his head, slams the bottle down on the counter, then storms out.

Harry sidles up to the counter. “What was that about?”

“Harold! Good morning, good morning,” Nick says. “He wanted a stealth potion. Never mind he could have made one of his own for next to nothing. Wouldn’t believe me on the price. Anyway, that’s all right, he’s gone now. And here you are!”

“Here I am!” Harry agrees, ducking his head to hide a smile. He doubts it helps, though, because Nick’s leaned forward, elbows resting on the counter to smile at him. “It’s afternoon, by the way.”

“Is it? Ah, that’d explain the children, then,” Nick says. “I thought about yelling at them for missing school. Good thing I didn’t, isn’t it?”

“How d’you not know what time it is?”

“I really only just woke up a few hours ago. I was out late again.” Nick widens his eyes absurdly. “I know, I’m as shocked as you are. ‘Nick Grimshaw, out partying? Really?’ It’s true.”

“You don’t seem the type,” Harry says, laughing. “You mean you don’t just hang about here at all hours?”

“I don’t! I even eat sometimes,” Nick admits, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Harry places a hand over his heart. “I won’t, promise. Look, though, much as I love a bit of banter, I was actually wondering if you could help me find something.”

Nick sighs. “You only want me for my goods, don’t you? Wizards, magicians. You lot are all the same.”

“Aw, you’re just saying that.” Harry ducks his head again, pretty sure his cheeks have gone red. Only, he’s feeling brave today, so he allows himself to look up, meet Nick’s eyes again. It’s just a bit of banter, but - “Besides, who says I don’t want you for your body ‘n that, too?”

“Why, Harold.” Nick reels back, voice dripping with mock incredulity. “Such filth, really. And there’s children about.”

For two years - ever since Nick took over The Shop, and thus ever since Harry first met him - Harry’s rather fancied him. It’s possibly the most absurd crush he’s had, mooning over a shopkeep, but then Nick’s well fit, and Harry has eyes, doesn’t he, and he’s had whole arguments with the lads about it. None of them get it.

Possibly that’s because most of them choose to do business at supply shops nearer their homes, only coming down to The Shop when they need something properly rare and difficult to acquire, something Nick’s a bit of a specialist in. Presumably they miss out on Nick’s ability to entertain and go on at length.

Harry has even, a few times, found out what parties Nick goes to and what set he spends his time with, and skulked around the edges of galas and shindigs and big to-dos, all manner of cultural events, made conversation with Nick and Nick’s friends, before shying off again, laughing at his own absurdity.

How it’s taken him this long to get up the nerve, he’s no idea, but he’s had enough. He’s flirted and batted his eyes enough, and Nick gives as good as he gets, and Harry just - he’s not bored of it, exactly. He’d just rather something come of it sooner or later.

“Aw, come off it,” Harry says. “Really, though, d’you like - I did have something I wanted, but look, d’you want to get - I don’t know when you’re free. I was going to get dinner tomorrow, though, there’s this place opened up back in Shoreditch, unless there’s somewhere nearer here you’ve wanted to go, then we can do that, but I mean - yeah.”

“Bit busy tomorrow,” Nick says, and Harry feels his face fall. That must be what gets Nick amending the statement quickly: “It’s just this party Pix is throwing, though, yeah? We can eat first, if you wanted to tag along. You know Pixie, right?”

“We met, yeah,” Harry says, nodding carefully. It’s possible - just maybe - that one time around two months ago he got completely pissed, draped himself over her back, and slurred something at her about how much he fancied Nick and how she should help him out. She’d gotten him into a carriage and on his way back to his flat, which was probably for the best, honestly. He likes her all right, is the point. She’s saved him from himself without hardly knowing him. “She’s all right.”

“Why, you fancy her?” Nick grins, raising his eyebrows. “You need me to put in a good word?”

“I - what? No! No, that’s fine,” Harry says, not sure how they got to this point. To be fair, Pixie is gorgeous, but she’s also not Nick Grimshaw, which is the only thing wrong with her that Harry knows of. Possibly she snores, or hates croissants, or eats kebab for every single meal - she could have all sorts of flaws, Harry allows, other than not being Nick, but he doesn’t mind. “D’you want to like … meet here, then?”

“I’ll close up around half ten,” Nick says. For The Shop, that’s early, though the hours do fluctuate wildly. There are none posted outside, which Nick claims is a feature rather than a flaw. He once claimed that if someone needs to buy something that can’t wait a day or so, they’ve got bigger problems than he can help with. Harry’s prone to believe that assessment, though he’s prone to believe anything Nick says. “If you want to come by a bit early, just so we don’t miss each other?”

“Aw, I always miss you,” Harry says, then instantly feels stupid for it, and decides to laugh at his own joke. “Yeah, though, all right! Tomorrow, half ten. Dinner, then Pix’s.”

“There we are.”

Harry turns to go, feeling accomplished and full of himself, when Nick calls after him.

“Didn’t you say you were here to get something, or was that all?”

“Oh! Yeah.” Harry goes a bright, absurd red, shuffling back to the counter with his hands shoved as far in his pockets as they’ll go, hair a protective curtain in front of his eyes. Then he manages to trip over his own feet, and fall against the floor. The only good part of the whole incident is him not knocking anything over.

Nick leans over the counter, staring down at him. “You all right?”

Harry lies in place for a while, catches his breath, then reaches for the counter and pulls himself back upright. “Fine, yeah.” He’s actually managed to scrape a hole in the knee of his trousers, and he can feel blood welling up at the scrape, but he’s not about to point that out. “Right, though. Got a list of what I was looking for, if you could …”

“Hand it over, then,” Nick says, and Harry rummages for the list, passing it across the counter and standing there staring intently at his hands while Nick reads over the list, pretending he’s checking for damage from the fall or something. His hands aren’t the slightest scratched up, though he does have a bit of dirt under his fingernails, which he sets about digging at. “Got all this except the newt, but I reckon I could get you one by tomorrow, if you need. That all right?”

“Yeah, that’ll do,” Harry says. “Actually - I could just pick everything up tomorrow night?”

Nick raises his eyebrows. “You want to take all this to dinner?”

“Oh, er.” Harry pauses. “No. Don’t suppose newts like partying much, either.”

“You never know! They could,” Nick says. “Give me a minute, though, I’ll get this lot together for you. Make sure those kids don’t steal anything, yeah?”

Harry laughs, and turns to keep an eye on the shop while Nick vanishes into the back to get the more esoteric bits of Harry’s order. Fortune telling’s an obnoxious business, not least because it’s impossible to see the actual future, but Harry makes a bit of money at it, and it’s no use turning down requests if he can get a few quid.

Technically, Harry could do all that needs doing without any supplies at all - but people like seeing cards and crystals, like it when a newt’s entrails are spilled just for them so they can feel properly reassured by the pomp and pageantry of it. Harry’ll burn herbs and incense, some of which do have actual magical properties, which is what he’s here for now - the ones that’ll help bring focus, brighten the threads he’s looking for, that sort of thing, as well as ones that - if you’re not used to the effects - make you feel a bit wobbly-headed just breathing in the smoke.

That sort of thing impresses people, too. Essentially, Harry’s job is to make it look as if he’s doing a lot more work than he’s really doing. Putting on a show that way’s fun, though, and he’s occasionally half tempted to give up on his studying and just become a wandering entertainer, delighting children and whoever else with flashy little tricks. That seems like the easy way out, though, so he keeps studying, hoping that at some point an actual career path will somehow coalesce.

The other lads all seem sorted by now, Niall and Liam and Louis and Zayn, in proper apprenticeships, whereas Harry’s - sort of at loose ends, since Caroline stopped properly tutoring him and suggested maybe it was best if he move out. Even when he was still studying, he had little direction. Now he’s got none at all, other than keeping himself alive, fed and earning enough to pay rent on his little flat.

Still, that’s all right. At some point, some higher purpose is sure to reveal itself, and he’ll embark on a proper career doing something very important like all his other friends. Maybe he’ll ask Caroline to teach him whatever it is he chooses, and keep it professional this time.

The pair of kids are still bickering over a book in the back. Harry yells at them, just in case - “You two need help with anything?”

“No!” The taller one turns, startled, then looks away, whispering fiercely at his friend, before turning back. “Have you heard anything about monsters?”

“What kind of monsters?”

“Monsters that like - eat people,” the kid says. “Not like the angels, mean ones.”

“There’s all sorts that do that,” Harry says. “You’re going to have to give me a bit more to go on. Why, what for? You’d be better off at the zoo, you want to see monsters.”

“All right, so me’n Chris was out birdwatching, right, so it’s real early, sun’s just coming up -”

“Aw, don’t tell him that!”

“Birdwatching’s cool,” Harry says, dryly. “So, what, you see a big bird? Could’ve been Huginn or -”

“I know what the ravens look like!” The first kid snaps. “And no, no birds. There weren’t any about that morning at all.”

“Weirdest thing,” the second kid agrees. “Even in London, you’ve got lots of birds, but it’s like, dead quiet, right? Except then I start hearing this kind of hum, except it’s not really a sound, more a feeling. But then Chris is like, ‘Oh, what’s that, do you hear that?’ and I’m about to bring up the hum, but there’s this sound like - like this gross wet sound and this thumping, so we go see what it is, and when we get ‘round this corner there’s …”

“What?” Harry asks, when it becomes evident the kid’s not going to say any more.

“A dead body,” the first one says, voice low. “All tore up, though. Both its hands torn clean off.”

“No,” Harry says, slowly. “You’re having me on.”

“Are not! I swear it!” Both the children cross their arms, as if they’re daring Harry to question them again. “And then like - there’s been all those other murders and all, pets going missing, and we were figuring, what if it’s all some monster?”

“The Met’ll get on it,” Harry says, though he’s not sure he trusts that to happen. “You told the police, right?”

“Yeah,” the first kid says, incredulous. “‘Course! You sure you don’t know what might’ve done it, though?”

“Sorry,” Harry says, shaking his head. “It’ll be all right, though -”

“Will not,” the other one says. “C’mon, Chris, Mum’s making a roast tonight and I’m starved. You can come back to mine for dinner, she won’t mind.”

“We’re gonna keep looking tomorrow,” Chris tells his friend, a bit uselessly, before tailing him toward the door.

“Good luck,” Harry says, a bit uselessly as the kids finally leave, without buying anything.

The timing works out perfectly - Nick’s back just as the kids are leaving. Harry almost laughs, seeing him again. “All right there?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Why?”

“Those kids didn’t steal anything, did they?”

“Don’t think so.”

“You looked worried,” Nick says, then shrugs it off. “Got your things, anyway.”

“Cheers,” Harry says, taking the bag Nick hands him and placing it carefully in his satchel, smiling up at Nick again as he closes the bag. “I’ll let you get to it, yeah? And see you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow. I’ll have that newt of yours, if all goes well. I’ve got a good source on that lot, though. You should be set.”

Harry nods, and heads out.

The particular newt he needs lives only on the continent, and only wild-caught ones are of any use. There’s something about the region of northern France where they’re found, the natural magic of the area, that gives them rainbow-colored intestines. Said intestines are of no actual significance, but it’s become the done thing to try and read portents from them, and the bright colors make it all seem more plausible even when a nice local newt would have the exact same significance - that is, none at all.

Just before he makes it out the door, the shop’s cat finally makes an appearance, meowing at him from a shelf at about eye-level, where it has quite suddenly appeared. The cat is a monster of a tom, weighing a touch over a stone, with entirely too much brown-black fur that makes it seem even larger.

“Hullo, Finchy,” Harry says, reaching out to scratch the cat’s head. Finchy meows pleasantly at him. If the cat has a proper name, Harry has no idea - Nick says it used to go by Simon, but he found that boring. At some point, Nick decided the cat acted like his friend Matt Fincham, and the name has stuck, mostly. Harry digs in his pocket, finally coming up with what he’d brought for the cat, a tin of sardines that he opens up and puts down on the ground. Finchy hops down from his shelf, and completely ignores Harry in favor of the treat.

“Mind the cat,” Harry calls, hanging in the doorway a moment longer. “Just gave him some sardines.”

“You spoil him, Harold!” Nick answers, laughing. Harry ducks out before he can get drawn back into conversation, feeling flushed and happy.

He goes home after that, only to find a note slipped under the door of his little flat.

Louis’s invited him out to some cafe. Harry squints at the invitation, trying to sort out Louis’s ulterior motive. He can’t come up with one.

Might as well go. Possibly, since Louis is the one who asked him, he can talk Louis into paying for his meal, since he’s planning on eating out tomorrow as well. 

The place Louis wants to meet is halfway between both of their flats, which is convenient, and probably perfectly planned. Louis is good at plans, in a way Harry tends not to be - for example, Harry’s not actually sure where he wants to go for dinner with Nick, what’ll be affordable but impressive. He’s also not sure where Pixie Geldof lives, nor what he’s going to do with a newt all night while they eat and party.

Newts don’t take well to parties, as far as Harry knows.

The trip to the little cafe doesn’t take long, and Harry gets some coffee while he waits. Louis is ten minutes late, which is startling - he tends to be perfectly on time for everything.

Louis claims magic works just like clockwork, that it’s all about interlocking gears and things powering blithely forward; there’s some rubbish about cycles and pattern in there, but it all boils down to a very mechanical vision of something Harry can’t imagine as anything but a vast tapestry of sorts.

Not that Harry’s going to argue. Most people see it differently, to one degree or another, if they bother looking for it at all, bother conceptualizing it as anything other than another natural force like gravity or electricity. 

Louis finally arrives, his hair messier than usual and his sharp features set in a worried-looking frown. “Oh, you’re here already? Shit, I must be really late, then.”

“Only a few minutes,” Harry says. “Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I didn’t get you anything, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Louis says. “Since I made you wait, I’ll spot you a sandwich, yeah?”

“All right, cheers,” Harry says, and settles back in his chair again to wait while Louis tracks down wait staff to get them set up with food. Louis comes back with two sandwiches, balanced precariously with a large mug as well. Harry gets up to help him with it, then sits down again to take a sip of his still-hot coffee. “So are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine,” Louis says. “Only, you know Liam.”

Harry stares at him.

Louis lets out a frustrated breath. “Right, yeah, you’ve known Liam as long as I have. We both know Liam. Everyone knows Liam! Joy, hooray. Anyway, look, it’s just - timing’s kind of weird, right?”

“For what?”

“I was going to … so him and Danielle have been having trouble again.”

“Ooh, rough.” Harry makes a sympathetic noise, shaking his head. He clicks his tongue. Liam and Danielle have been together almost as long as Liam’s been in London, nearly two years at this point. “You think they’ll break up?”

“Oh, damn.” Louis seems startled by this idea. “Why, has either of them said anything to you?”

“No! This is the first I’m hearing. There anything we can do?” Harry asks. “Are we taking Liam out to cheer him up soon or something?”

“Maybe,” Louis allows. “That’s not - sorry, I should ask how you are. How are you, Harry?”

“I’m all right.” Harry laughs. “I’m doing good, actually. I need to buy furniture tomorrow, though. That’s going to be miserable, but then I’m getting dinner with Nick, so s’all right, isn’t it? I could get through anything for that.”

“Finally,” Louis says, shaking his head. “You’re awful. I hope you know that. Speaking of Nick, though.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m thinking of proposing to Eleanor.”

Harry stares at him a while, then lets his head cock to one side. “What’s that got to do with Nick?”

“Well, you’re obsessed with him,” Louis says. “And … it’s … I’m obsessed with Eleanor?”

“You’ve gone mad,” Harry decides, cheerful enough. The news is at once startling and completely predictable. He knew it was coming eventually. “Really, though? Congratulations!”

“Yeah. It’s just - all right, here’s the trouble,” Louis says. “I was going to have Liam do the rings.”

“Right,” Harry says, slowly.

“And just … if him and Danielle are fighting, then making him think about marriage is a bit rough, isn’t it? I don’t want to do that to him.”

“I don’t think he’ll get mad at you for it,” Harry says. “You’re probably fine.”

“What if I’m not, though?”

“You can get someone else to do it.”

“Yeah, but it’s Liam. He’s my friend. What if he’s upset I didn’t ask?”

“Louis,” Harry says, leaning forward. He puts his hands over Louis’s. Between the two of them, Louis is usually the rational one. Not necessarily the calm or the sane one, never the righteous one, but always the more rational of the two of them. Clearly, the notion of marriage has driven him mad. “Calm down.”

“Right.” Louis closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, very dramatic. Then he relaxes, opens his eyes again and starts eating his sandwich. “D’you think I should, though?”

“Ask Liam? Yeah. Can’t hurt,” Harry says. “He doesn’t have to make it for you if he doesn’t want to. Would you be paying him?”

“Of course!” Louis sounds scandalized. “It’s a job. I’m not just going to make him do his job for free.”

“You’re a good man.”

“And you think … like, me and Eleanor. That’s all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, laughing a little. “You don’t need my permission.”

“It’s just kind of … nice knowing my friends approve, I guess,” Louis says. He shakes his head. “I got the idea last week. You’re the first one I’ve told, really.”

“That’s fantastic, though,” Harry says, and it is. Louis and Eleanor haven’t actually been together as long as Danielle and Liam, but it’s not as if Harry’s one to judge relationships or their intensity, considering he’s prone to not having relationships. He tries, now and again, but it rarely goes well or lasts more than a month or two..

Caroline, for example. He thought that was going all right until he realized it wasn’t. That’s fine. Neither of them was that invested, and it was kind of awkward since he was also her apprentice anyway. He found himself slacking off more than was justifiable, for someone claiming to want to learn, and she was more forgiving than she should have been.

The whole thing was a mess, and stupid, and they still like each other, Harry’s pretty sure; at some point he may even resume studying under her tutelage, or go back to asking her questions when he needs help.

For now, though, they’re not really speaking, and that’s fine, too. It’s all fine. It’s also not relevant, and Harry’s going to get dinner with Nick who he’s fancied for-fucking-ever, and Louis is apparently getting married, so he has all sorts of other things to think about.

That, and the thing he saw on the tube, and the rash of disappearances and murders lately, and what those kids down at The Shop said about finding a body. All those are weighing on his mind a bit, too, but that’s stuff for the police force to sort out, and Harry should just let it be instead of wondering and fretting.

London’s been plagued with monsters and serial killers before. This is nothing new, and it’ll get dealt with, just like it always does. 

The situation has nothing to do with him.

“Married,” Harry says, eventually, shaking his head. “That’s fantastic, it really is. I’m so happy for you.”

“Cheers.” Louis smiles down at his plate, and his half-finished sandwich. “I just really … I think it’s time, you know?”

“That’s good, though, that you’re like - sure enough of it that you want to ask her.”

“But - really, though, do you think Liam’d be up for the rings?”

“Of course. That’s hardly even a question.” Harry shakes his head. “Even if him and Danielle are having trouble, that’s nothing to do with you and Eleanor. He’ll be happy for you too, don’t worry. He’s about the best mate you could ask for, honestly.”

“I’m going to have him put a protection charm in it, or like - something like that,” Louis says. “I’m still trying to decide. Something to show she’s important and I love her, and … yeah, all that.”

“A protection charm’d be nice,” Harry says, and they end up spending the rest of the evening debating the merits of various charms, wards and spells that could be worked into the metal.

Liam studies metallurgy, shaping and coaxing metal into shape with his bare hands. He can join pieces together without a seam, melt disparate metals together into one unbroken alloy, craft jewelry and tools and little children’s toys.

Liam once made Harry a little mechanical horse, powered by magic, made all out of silver. Harry’s still got it someplace, though, given the new flat and his inability to actually unpack his things, he’s not sure where.

For three whole years now - and probably longer - Liam’s been studying his craft, getting better and better at it. Harry envies him.

Louis’s been at his even longer, though; the topic eventually shifts to that, purely because, “I think - if things go all right at the hospital, I’m going to rent out a bigger flat, get Eleanor to finally move in with me. Or should I wait until we’re married?”

“Maybe wait,” Harry says. “Give it a little time to see what kind of money you’re making then.”

“I’m making plenty now,” Louis says. “But no, you’re right, yeah. All right. All right, I’ll wait.”

“Good,” Harry says, amused. “How’s things with the job, anyway?”

“Good, good, it’s all right,” Louis says, apparently eager to get on the subject. “Y’know, I did my first heart transplant the other day? Been doing kidneys and livers for ages, and they went, ‘Lou, we think it’s time,’ and I got to do it! Only done that for a mouse before.”

Where Liam bends and reshapes metal, Louis instead bends and reshapes flesh and blood and bone. He’s knit together broken bones for more than a few of their friends, and smoothed out scars, helped mend cuts and scrapes for Harry on several occasions.

Lately, he’s been very gung ho about organ transplants, about reaching into people with his bare hands to pull parts of them free and give them replacements. He has, at least, toned it down a little, after realizing Harry really wasn’t too keen on hearing about exactly how he manipulated the blood vessels and nerve endings involved down to the finest detail.

Louis is a little too eager, sometimes, but Harry supposes someone has to be. Far as medicine’s come, it’s often easier to rely on biomagic for just about everything medical. A cast and bed rest will never quite measure up to a skilled magician’s touch - though non-magical medicine does have the benefit of costing a good deal less. Anatomy, physiology, iatrochemistry and biomagical manipulation are all tightly linked, and Louis’s worked hard to get where he is today.

Harry’s jealous, honestly. He’d have gone in for it, if he had the head for doctoring at all, but seeing sick and injured people all the time would leave him too depressed to work, which is the opposite of what’s needed in a doctor.

Fortune telling and odd jobs aren’t a bad life, though. Harry could keep doing that, and he’d be better off than a fair percentage of the city’s population, but grifting isn’t the most mentally or morally rewarding of career paths.

-

The next morning, Harry wakes up early, goes down to the shops to get himself a croissant and the morning paper, then heads back to his flat to put on tea.

He feels surprisingly put together, for someone who doesn’t usually wake up until much later in the day. Part of him wishes he’d gone and slept on Louis’s couch or something, but he’s trying to forcibly teach himself to be alone from time to time.

Once his tea’s ready, he sits down, and, feeling very adult, opens up the paper to read the news.

It is, of course, terrible. There’s been three bodies found overnight. Police are on the case, no connection between the victims, horribly maimed, et cetera; Harry is reassured by absolutely nothing he reads. There’s a one-off sentence, something about a witness being brought in for questioning, and some consulting wizard mentioning a disturbance in the area’s magic, alarm spells gone missing and the like.

Location doesn’t seem to matter - one was in Paddington, another in Camden, and the last off in Stratford East. All three victims, according to the paper, died sometime between two and five in the morning, found by people leaving for work or children on their way to school.

Harry thinks again of the boys from the shop yesterday, and shakes his head. He puts the paper down, not really wanting to know what else is happening. He’d rather eat his croissant and finish his tea in peace, then go about his day.

Tonight’s dinner with Nick, after all. He’s got enough to worry about without getting all bothered about mysterious murders.

It’s another fine day out - cloudy, this time, but warm enough. Harry allows himself to wander, aimless and restless, feeling like he should do something and plagued by the fact that he has no idea what.

Today, at least, he can buy things for his miserable little flat, brighten it up a little. Furniture or plants or something. He finds a florist, and kicks around in there until the clerk gets concerned, and he ends up buying like three violets and an orchid almost entirely on accident, then hurrying home, only to venture out again, leaving the pots in the middle of the floor in a bit of sun.

Walking through Shoreditch this time of year’s nice, or Harry likes it, anyway. Louis thinks the place is intolerable. Good on him for not living in the neighborhood, then.

Spraypaint was first brought to England when Harry was about six, and in a bit over a decade has evolved from something useful for coating radiators and painting bicycles into a veritable art form. Somewhere along the line, magicians got hold of it, too - Shoreditch is full up with artistic, dreamy types, a good number of whom have started an ad hoc movement to bring magic back to England, with a sort of wistful anti-technological bent to their writings and ramblings.

Harry gets handed a pamphlet on his way to find some damn furniture for his flat, which he tucks in his back pocket with a nod and hardly a glance at who’s handed it to him.

There’s a stretch of abandoned buildings, all covered with brightly-colored graffiti. A painted cat leaps off a painted-on windowsill, following Harry along for a while. Harry stops, kneeling in front of the wall and holding his hand out to it. Turns out the cat is not, in fact, just graffiti, as it pokes its head out from the wall to nose at Harry’s hand.

Harry doesn’t quite get cats. Someone - not him - needs to do a study, find out how it is they wend in and out of magic and shadow, drifting between worlds like it’s nothing. Harry’d quite like if he could imitate the technique, though he can’t think of much use for it. The cat follows him for another block before disappearing into a patch of shadows, tail flicking one last time before it’s out of sight.

-

Buying things and getting them home and setting them up takes longer than Harry expected, meaning he’s almost late by the time he gets himself all the way over to Primrose Hill.

The door to The Shop is locked when he gets there, and he stands in front of it for a while, out of breath and panting and sure he’s stuffed it up and Nick’s going to think he’s awful and will never agree to go anywhere with him again - when he spots Nick peeking out through the window, sees Nick grin and unlock the door.

“Harold! I thought you’d gotten lost or fallen asleep.”

“It’s not that late! It’s only half ten,” Harry says, indignant. “I wouldn’t. And how would I get lost? I come here like - every week, almost.”

“I was kidding,” Nick says, amused. “Long day?”

“No, it was all right,” Harry says, and ends up leaned against the wall, telling Nick about his day while Nick counts out the money and straightens the place up a little before they leave.

“So where are you taking me?”

“Er,” Harry says.

“There’s a place just down the road that does a lovely haddock,” Nick says, smile going crooked. Harry tries not to stare at Nick’s mouth for too long, and instead stares somewhere just to the left of his head instead. “If you didn’t have any other plans, that is.”

“Yeah, all right,” Harry says, relieved. He’s not sure how else he’ll manage to fuck up, but sooner or later he’ll find a way, surely. Usually Harry’s quite good with people, and has no particular trouble pulling when he wants to. Only Nick, who Harry’s been a bit obsessed with for ages, has willingly agreed to spend a fair portion of the evening with Harry, and suddenly all Harry’s wit abandons him at once.

Nick starts going on about his day, encounters with irate customers and dealings with itinerant merchants and the like, and appears completely willing to carry the conversation for a while.

Nick’s still talking when they get seated, and as they eat. Harry’s dead grateful, because it means he doesn’t have to come up with conversation all on his own.

By the time they’re a few drinks in, Harry has managed to convince himself he’s not going to fuck up and that he is, in fact, brilliant. He finds himself leaning forward across the table, taking Nick’s hand to punctuate his point mid-story, very serious - “And it turns out all this noise and ruckus and like, things falling, getting hit on the head, it was just a squirrel, wasn’t it?”

This is the first time Harry’s told someone that story and actually had them laugh, but Nick apparently thinks it’s hilarious.

Harry is a fucking genius, essentially. Whoever invented wine is a genius, too. Three glasses and Harry’s about on top of the world, and they’re going to a party in a bit where he can drink even more, and he’s pretty sure he’ll be able to convince Nick to kiss him at the very least, the way Nick’s smiling at him now.

“Did you want dessert?” Nick asks, suddenly, and Harry’s confused a moment before realizing the waiter’s on his way over to their table again. Harry remembers to let go of Nick’s hand, and frowns at his plate, puzzling over the idea of dessert. He can’t tell if it’s a good idea or not.

“What time’s the party?”

“Started …” Nick pauses, reaching into his pocket to pull out his watch. It’s a fine thing, gold, with a nice chain. Harry envies him a little, but then Harry has a wrist watch he got off a friend in exchange for putting up charms to keep ghosts out of her flat, so the envy isn’t too bad. “Hour and a half ago. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Harry startles. “Yeah, let’s get dessert, then. We should give it a bit.”

Nick starts laughing again. “I was worried you’d say we were late.”

“Never.” Harry shakes his head vehemently, though he regrets it because it makes him a bit dizzy. “If it was like … a party my mum was throwing, yeah, but not Pixie Geldof. Really, if we turned up now, we’d be the first ones there.”

“Precisely,” Nick says. “And I love Pix, but it’d be nice not to be that early. I think … I know Finchy and Ian are going to be there. Aimee. Rita Ora, you know her?”

“I’ve heard of her,” Harry allows.

“And Kate - Moss,” Nick goes on, rattling off a whole list of London’s finest, names Harry’s heard - and run into a few times, in his bid to stalk Nick, which in hindsight was sort of terribly creepy of him - but not really anyone knows. Nick finally finishes, then shakes his head. “I dunno if any of your set’ll be there.”

“You said Ed?” Harry tries.

“Yeah, Sheeran,” Nick agrees.

“Met him before; he’s all right. I’ll be fine.” Harry grins. “Just make sure and let me know when you leave; you still owe me that newt.”

“The newt!” Nick exclaims, shaking his head. “You’ll just have to come back to mine after, won’t you? Pity, that.” 

“Tragic,” Harry agrees, feeling very pleased with himself. “D’you live above the shop, then?”

“I do.” Nick makes a weird gesture, spreading his hands, sort of shrugging. “Is that cliche? I don’t have to pay rent on the place, so it’s all right, isn’t it? I’m hoping the cat doesn’t kick me out for at least as long as Moylesy got to stick around. It’d be nice.”

“Good luck,” Harry says, nodding as if he knows what the cat has to do with anything. “You could start up your own shop when you’re tired of working there, couldn’t you? Or do you want to do - something else, I guess?”

“I don’t know, really.” Nick makes a face. “I’d wanted to work there for ages, and then the cat took a shine to me, and Moylesy was on the way out anyway, so here I am. It’s a bit rough, getting your dream job, ‘coz you know you’ll have to do something else afterwards, and that nothing’s going to quite measure up.”

“At least you had a dream job,” Harry says. “Still don’t know what I want to do.”

“Then we’re in about the same place,” Nick says, corners of his mouth turned up, eyes gone a bit soft. He laughs it off, looking away. “Really, though, you’re - what, nineteen, yeah? You’ve got a while, you’re all right. I thought you were a fortune teller?”

Harry makes a face. “I’m good at it, but I don’t much like it, is the problem. Ah, never mind, it’s fine; I’ll sort it out. Don’t worry.”

“All right,” Nick says, amused. “Y’know, one of my friends tried to read my fortune once. Didn’t work. She was so confused, too.”

Harry almost rolls his eyes, but he’s feeling fond already, glad that dinner’s working out all right, and gladder still that it’s almost over and they’ll be moving on to a party where he can feel a bit calmer, maybe. He’s relaxed a lot, with the wine and with Nick being so nice, but his stomach still feels all fluttery. It’s a bright, almost joyful nervousness, but still nerves.“You want me to give it a go?”

“No, no, it’s all right,” Nick says. “You just said you don’t like doing it! Why would I make you do something you don’t like?”

Harry shrugs.

“See? Exactly. Now, let’s go; they know me well enough here, we’ll leave it on my tab.”

“Did you want, like - I could pay,” Harry starts. “Or we could go halves -”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Nick says, grinning. “It’s not every day I get to eat with a pretty young thing.” He pauses. “Well. Actually, that’s not true.”

“What’s not?” Harry asks, baffled, hurrying to follow after Nick out of the restaurant, going red rather belatedly as he realizes the compliment.

“I go out to eat entirely too often, and most of my friends -” Nick laughs. “But that’s different, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, trying not to feel too smug. 

The party is in this huge loft in the West End - they take the tube to get there, sitting entirely too close. Harry keeps giggling at the smallest things, including, but not limited to, some graffiti they pass, an old woman berating a police officer for having poor manners, and the fact that he manages to fake passes for the train for both of them, which Nick appears grateful for but unimpressed. Probably because he’s seen the trick done a thousand times, considering his group of friends. 

By now, Harry’s pretty sure he should be perfectly calm, only he keeps getting these moments where his heart’ll jump a bit too fast, and it’s not only because of Nick’s hand brushing his leg. Something’s off.

Still, they get to the party with nothing awful happening, and he gets drunk enough to drown any concerns he had, and ends up having a very pleasant night, talking to Pixie - when she’s free, since she’s playing good hostess and talking to everyone - and Aimee and the rest. They’re nice people, and take to Harry easily.

The more famous types intimidate him a little, but it turns out most of them are nice, too. Harry manages to bat his eyelashes, flirt, and make nice with enough people that he’s got two exorcisms and another fortune-telling session set up over the next week, and more people who have his address just in case than he ever has in his life.

He keeps bumping into Nick, both intentionally and on accident, which is nice - Nick’ll ask, “You all right, enjoying the party?” and Harry’ll grin at him, say yeah and start rambling about whoever he’s spoken with most recently until one of them gets pulled away again.

Somewhere around two hours in, Harry’s more sober than when he arrived, and he finds Nick talking with Aimee and Ian and creeps up behind him, standing on his tiptoes so he can hook his chin over Nick’s shoulder and stare at them all owl-eyed and curious.

“Harry! Aimee, Ian, you know Harry. Do you know Harry?”

“I know Harry,” Aimee volunteers. “I didn’t know you knew Harry. He’s always hanging ‘round, though, of course you know him.”

“He comes by the shop all the time,” Nick says, cheerful. “A lovely customer and a lovely person. Look at him. He’s lovely. Aren’t you, Harry?”

“I am,” Harry agrees, wriggling in so he can stand just next to Nick, invading his space only slightly less obviously than he was a moment ago. Nick raises his eyebrows. Harry acts oblivious, if only for the sake of propriety in front of Nick’s friends. “You need a drink?”

“Already got one,” Nick says, sadly, holding up his glass. Harry frowns at it. “Why, did you?”

“A little,” Harry says.

Nick rolls his eyes, then laughs. “Let’s go get you one, then, shall we? Sorry, Ian, Aimee. I’ve got to escort Mr Styles here to the alcohol, make sure he doesn’t get lost.”

After that, Harry spends the rest of the night essentially glued to Nick’s side. Nick seems determined to introduce him around to absolutely everyone, which is a little overwhelming - while Harry’s heard of a lot of these people, that’s mostly just from the society pages of the paper, and he doesn’t know if he’d be able to match up half the names and faces he’s learned if he were quizzed on them ten minutes later.

Luckily, there’s no actual quiz, and he doubts anyone expects him to remember everyone perfectly.

Still, it gets to be a bit much, and him and Grimmy end up sat on a couch in the corner, talking about some new book that Niall Breslin’s put out - “Oh, Bressie, he comes ‘round at least once whenever he’s in London, I like him,” is Nick’s input, mostly.

It turns out, and Harry didn’t realize this, that Nick does not do magic.

“It’s not that I don’t,” Nick says, lazily swirling a finger through the air as if to draw patterns in it. “I just can’t. I’ve tried, I promise.”

“You can’t, really?” Harry says. “Not even, like - making a light or anything.”

“Not even a light,” Nick agrees. “And don’t offer to show me, that’s boring. Do you know how many people have tried to show me?”

“Dozens, probably,” Harry says. He gets the feeling his answer doesn’t matter that much. The number’s probably huge.

“Well, maybe three or four,” Nick says. Turns out Harry’s guess was wrong, and he laughs a little. Nick keeps an entirely straight face, looking very serious indeed. “I don’t tell most people. Is it weird, running a magic shop and not being able to do magic?”

“Dunno,” Harry says.

“Magic doesn’t really work on me either, though, so I guess that makes it better. Safer, yeah? Not going to accidentally set off any - magic bombs or something, am I?”

Harry shrugs. “You’d know better than I do. You really can’t do magic. Not even a little?”

“We just went over this,” Nick says. He’s being very patient. Harry sighs, and puts his head on Nick’s shoulder, which makes Nick laugh but otherwise draws no reaction.

Harry’s sort of tired, if he’s honest. Tired of the party, at the very least, not that it hasn’t been fun. It’s just a lot to take in for one night, especially after a day spent dragging furniture around and rearranging his flat and then spending hour after hour with Nick fucking Grimshaw.

Also, now and again he’ll get that sense of unease from before, and that tires him out, too, though more mentally rather than physically. It’s a strange sensation, and not one he’s fond of, though he learned, after feeling it while going to get some punch to try and clear his head only to find that the punch was spiked, that it’s not just being ‘round Nick that’s setting it off. That’s a relief, knowing he’s not completely pitiful.

Nick yawns, which is precisely the sort of opening Harry’s been wanting for at least five minutes. “You tired?”

“A bit,” Nick says. “If I get up I’ll be all right.”

Harry pauses. “I think I might head home. Only, well. Did you - I mean, you had that thing for me, and probably I should come ‘round yours, unless you think tomorrow, but tonight’d be all right, yeah, I could come by and …”

“Yeah, you can come by and if you want.” Nick grins, almost predatory as he lets his hand wander down from Harry’s shoulder, fingers tip-toeing over fabric to rest low on his hip. Nick has his head turned so he can watch Harry from the corner of his eye.

Somewhat belatedly, Harry decides he may as well make his intentions even clearer. He’s pretty sure Nick knows exactly what he’s after, but it’s late and he’s tired and he wants there to be no question at all, so he leans in, tilts his head. Their mouths are only a few centimeters apart. He can feel Nick’s breath warm against his face. Harry’s not feeling particularly clever, so he says, “Yeah? So I can come in when we get there?”

“Yeah,” Nick agrees, looking only slightly surprised but not pulling away, so Harry leans in that little bit closer, presses his lips up against Nick’s, and does what he’s wanted to do for nearly two years.

-

Trying to get back to Nick’s turns into an ordeal. It starts well enough - they make it to the tube in one piece, then get on in the wrong direction entirely, Nick only noticing something’s off when they pass Waterloo. Then they get turned back around the right direction, and end up singing some rousing marching tune with a drunken band of soldiers, before that group gets off at Leicester Square, where they started off to begin with.

They finally get themselves to the right stop, and even get off the train in the right place and head the right direction to go to Nick’s. 

At this point, Harry assumes the rest of the evening’s going to be brilliant. Him and Nick are walking close enough that the backs of their hands keep brushing, and Harry’s of half a mind to push Nick up against a wall and have done with it.

The late hour means the streets are quiet, and they turn a corner onto an even quiet street, cutting across back to Nick’s. Enough time has passed that Harry’s closer to sober, but he lets himself lean against Nick’s side, and Nick laughs and they stumble their way along giggling about nothing.

“Got a secret,” Harry whispers.

“I love secrets. Tell me, tell me,” Nick says. “I might even keep it secret myself. You never know.”

“You can’t tell!” Harry cries, entirely too loud, and hits Nick on the arm, then starts laughing again.

“No punching, no punching, come on, be civilized,” Nick tells him. “You little devil.”

“I’m a saint,” Harry slurs, undignified, and he’s about to say more when he hears something.

That’s not quite right. He doesn’t hear it, precisely; it’s more like a resonant hum inside his head, rather than anything auditory.

Nick doesn’t seem to notice, instead continuing on - “You’ve got to mind your manners, Styles, none of this rampant violence in the streets.”

“Wait,” Harry says. He holds a hand up, not really thinking. The hum feels almost like something rattling, now, like it’s deepened to an impossible bass, only nothing’s shaking from it except Harry’s thoughts.

“What?” Nick pauses, then stops when Harry does. “What is it? Is everything all right?”

Harry lets out a breath, and is suddenly very aware of his breathing, of the muscles in his chest moving as he inhales, all of him suddenly tense. His chest feels tight like he can’t breathe in all the way. He steps away from Nick, and though he misses the warmth of Nick’s arm around his waist, he feels like he might be able to figure out what the sound is if he’s not distracted. “Dunno.”

“Well, I’m cold. I’d like to get back home at some point,” Nick says, crossing his arms and looking rather small. The gas lights gutter and flicker, casting an uneasy light over the street, the shadows deepening infinitesimally. “You can come up for tea if you want, but you don’t have to - let’s just not stand around here all night, please.”

“Do you hear that?” Harry asks, looking around, suddenly dizzy because the hum seems to come from everywhere at once. The air shakes, and all Harry can think of is a trumpet, heralding an arrival. Of what, he couldn’t say. The sound is bone-deep. 

He doesn’t know how Nick hasn’t noticed anything. It’s so loud. Nick looks away, up the street. “Hear what -”

Harry stumbles backwards. He gets the impression of something very, very large hooking a claw somewhere in his mind, tugging him around, and he turns around, limbs feeling stiff and heavy as they move against his will.

When he turns around, he finds himself face to face with nothing. Rather than the rest of the street across the way, there’s a huge, looming shadow that towers up the sides of the buildings, and a figure, the height of a man, shrouded in rags that is at once separate and a part of the looming dark. The precise shape of it is obscure beyond Harry’s reckoning, and when he tries to look underneath things, to see the magic, there’s a gaping, ragged hole, the edges frayed and tearing, bending inward toward the dark before disappearing. 

“Harry,” Nick’s saying.

The creature in the dark lifts its head. Harry feels a warm snuffling, like something massive breathing in his scent. He can’t tell what the thing looks like, besides the impression of colossal teeth, because just as his eyes are sorting out the intricate tangle of shapes and planes and angles, he catches sight of its eyes. 

They shine like mirrors, and Harry stumbles toward it, trying to see what’s reflected there when he realizes.

It’s magic, visualized more clearly than he’s ever seen it, all bright, twisting threads, and he can see himself shining in a whole tangle of color and material. Somehow, in the middle of that yawning emptiness, there’s a brighter, better concentration of magic than he’s ever seen, and it pulls Harry in, never mind the frayed edges and the teeth and the trumpet sound still shaking his skull.

His feet move, without him telling them to.

“Harry!”

The creature has teeth, and claws, and despite being maybe six feet tall, if that, takes up more space than it has a right to. The reflection in its eyes is so bright, though. Harry’s transfixed.

He reaches a hand out toward it, and in his reflection, he sees the movement, then sees the threads start to fray and unravel. It’s as if his hand’s a sweater that’s gotten caught on a twig, threads of magic getting caught and tugged out. The creature doesn’t even have to touch him. Its great hooked claws move like needles, like it’s doing crochet, only it feels like an undoing, really.

Part of Harry realizes, dimly, that he can’t see his fingers anymore, and his palm seems to be unraveling on two levels - the magic in the reflection, and the flesh and blood of his body.

He should look away, only he can’t.

Suddenly, there’s a sound - it sounds like a cat yowling at the top of its lungs, and then a dark shape gets between him and the reflection and he loses his balance.

He tries to catch himself on both hands, fails, then falls and hits his head. His vision swims a moment before going completely dark.

-

Harry wakes up very slowly. He’s in bed. Probably missed dinner with Nick, he thinks, groaning, because he’s just woken up out of a very strange and vivid dream.

He opens his eyes. The wood of the ceiling looks off, the planks going the wrong way for him to be in his own bed. He wonders where he is.

“Oi, he’s awake,” someone says, low. He thinks he recognizes the voice, maybe, then there’s someone standing over him.

Everything’s fuzzy for a moment, then Harry remembers to focus.

“Hello, Harry,” the person says. He’s tallish, maybe in his thirties, dark hair. He’s got a white coat on. Harry frowns.

“You a doctor?”

That earns a laugh. “Dr Winston, yes. Call me Ben if you like.”

“Hiya,” Harry says, going to push himself up and not quite managing it. He can’t seem to quite coordinate his right hand, so he’s off balance; he feels tired, too, needlessly exhausted beyond reason.

Eventually, he gets himself sitting up, and crosses his hands in his lap.

Sort of.

“We couldn’t save your hand,” Ben’s saying. Harry’s dazed by the lack. His arm just sort of - ends. There’s been magic done to patch him up, clearly, so there’s no stitches, just angry red skin closed off over what should have been half his forearm and his wrist and his fucking hand, which is - like the rest of it - not there. “You should be all right otherwise, though.”

“Without my hand.”

“It’ll take some getting used to,” Ben agrees. “At least you didn’t bleed out or get an infection. I drew out the bacteria before closing it all off.”

“You do magic, then?”

“Yes.”

“Huh,” Harry says. He’s still staring. He feels very, very tired and doesn’t want to be awake. Maybe he can go to sleep and wake up and this will have been a dream.

“You all right, Harry?” Nick asks from across the room.

“No.” It’s a petulant answer, but Harry can’t bring himself to care. He thinks he might be in shock, and says as much. “I think I may be in shock.”

“That seems fair,” Nick says.

“Am I at yours?”

“Yeah.”

“Well.” Harry laughs, entirely too loud. He manages to get out a sentence even though he’s still laughing. His arm hurts, and his head hurts, and everything fucking hurts. He’s got bruises on his left arm, even though it’s at least intact, and his hip feels bruised, too. “There’s one thing went right, innit?”

The doctor, Ben, says, “You should get some rest. Nick, can you make him a cup of tea?”

“Oh, tea would be nice,” Harry says. It might help him calm down. He pauses. “Going to be awful trying to drink it, though.”

Nick ducks out of the room, and Harry tips his head back to look up at the ceiling. Ben says, “I’m sorry about your hand. There was hardly anything left.”

“Yeah,” Harry says.

“D’you remember what happened?”

“Only sort of. There was this … thing, I dunno.” Harry shakes his head. He rubs at his arm with his left hand, bewildered. “And I was just … I couldn’t help myself, right? And so I … yeah. Then it ate my hand, I guess.”

“Ate it?” Ben asks. “That’s not what Nick said -”

“I mean, maybe not ate it, precisely, like - not bit it off.” Harry shakes his head. He flexes the fingers of his left hand, looking at the back of it, then turns it over to stare at his palm. At least that one’s still there. “I don’t even know if it meant to do that. It was like it just wanted my magic, and sort of - got the rest by accident.”

“Do you know what it was?”

Harry shakes his head, then pauses, frowning. “You’re a doctor. What’s it matter to you?”

Ben smiles, just barely. “I’m allowed to worry. There's been strange things happening in London lately. I'm sure you noticed."

“Yeah,” Harry allows.

Nick comes back with two cups of tea, one for Ben, and one for Harry. Harry starts to reach to take it, then stops, remembers to reach with his left hand instead, face gone hot. His eyes sting a bit.

Last night had started so nicely, too, though now he’s thinking he should have known something would go wrong, with how nervous he was the whole time.

“Sorry,” Nick starts, then sits on the mattress next to Harry, holding the saucer for him. “D’you want me to help?”

“I’m all right,” Harry starts, then shakes his head. “No, yeah, all right. That’d be nice. I - sorry.”

“There’s not a lot else I can do,” Ben says. Harry’d almost forgotten he was there. He sips his tea, standing awkwardly. “And I’ve got other patients to see, so if there’s nothing else -”

“It’s all right,” Harry says, vaguely.

“Send for me if you need anything,” Ben says, before turning to go.

After Ben’s left, Nick says, “Well, that wasn’t how I was hoping the evening would go.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly eight,” Nick says. “Bright and early. You were only out a few hours there.”

“Sorry,” Harry says. He’s not sure what else to say. This is quite possibly the worst morning-after-a-party he’s had in his life. “Ah, I need to get home soon. Got to tell a woman’s fortune at ten.”

“I think she’ll understand if you miss it this once.”

“Need the money, though,” Harry says, wearily. “Rent’s due soon.”

Nick looks away. “Right. Still, d’you want - I can walk you, at least.”

“I live over in Shoreditch. It’s a bit far for that.”

“Let’s get you a carriage, then, at the least,” Nick decides, standing up decisively. “I know we don’t know each other well, but I want to help. Or - not if that’s too condescending. Is it?”

Harry laughs, surprised, and shakes his head. “I don’t know. No, it’s nice, it’s all right.”

“Count yourself lucky. I can hardly take care of myself, let alone anyone else.” Nick pauses. “Actually, that might make the offer unlucky, then, wouldn’t it?”

“A little, yeah,” Harry agrees, managing a laugh in a timely fashion. He sighs, then, turning to look toward the window. “Your room’s nice, anyway.”

“I tidied up while you were sleeping. Wasn’t anything else to do,” Nick says, with a shrug, looking down at the saucer and teacup he’s still holding. “I mean, I’d cleaned before that, too, since - well.”

Harry laughs again at that, a little more easily this time. “Fuck, you know how long I’ve wanted to get in your bed? And here I am.”

“Is it everything you dreamed of?” Nick finally looks at Harry again, fluttering his eyelashes absurdly.

“No.”

Nick grins, sharp and sudden before the expression falls away. “Am I allowed to joke about this yet?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. You know how many people I’m going to have to tell? This’ll be awful.”

“I can always get the rumor mill going,” Nick says. “Spread the word the easy way.”

“So the whole city knows?” Harry makes a face. “Well - no, actually, that’s probably wise. Let people know that - what was that thing?”

“I didn’t see it,” Nick admits. “One minute we’re walking down the street, next you’re staring into space and stumbling around like you’ve been possessed, then -” He stops, shrugs. 

“It was so loud, though,” Harry says, bewildered, staring at Nick. “You didn’t see or hear anything?”

“Not a peep.” Nick shakes his head. “Sorry, mate. If it was magic, that’d probably explain it.”

“Yeah.” Harry frowns, lowering his head for a moment in thought. “Yeah, you know, if you know people - or if people stop by the shop, you might as well … yeah. It’s worth a mention. And then I’ve got that woman wants her fortune told, she’ll want an explanation. All right. All right. Should we go to the Met, are they going to believe it? This’s more their business than mine, public safety.”

“I try to avoid the police as best I can,” Nick says, dryly. “Some of my suppliers don’t get along with them so well, and I try not to alienate them or potential customers. Bad for business, that.”

“Right,” Harry says, with another little laugh.

Nick seems loathe to leave the room, but eventually does; Harry can hear him rambling about the set of rooms above the shop, then Nick ducks his head back in to ask if Harry wants any breakfast. Harry finds himself suddenly quite hungry, so he says as much.

Nick, apparently, cannot cook for the life of him. Harry almost offers to make something, then remembers himself, and instead just tells Nick what he’d like from the restaurant down the road, which is apparently used to Nick’s inability to care for himself and generally has breakfast ready for him before he even turns up each morning.

Harry wonders how long it’ll take him to figure out one-handed cooking. The prospect doesn’t seem enticing in the slightest, but he supposes he’ll have to make do.

Eventually, he gets up himself, feeling off-balance but otherwise fine, and casts about trying to find his own clothes. He’s in an oversized white shirt right now, that hangs loose on his shoulders, and his own pants, but he doesn’t know where his trousers or shirt or waistcoat or any of it have gotten off to, until he finds the bloodstained fabric in the bin in Nick’s kitchen.

Fair enough, Harry supposes. None of it looks worth saving - his shirt, in particular, used to be red and its remains are both torn, stained red and covered with dirt from the street. His trousers fared slightly better, but there are blood stains on those as well.

This means he’ll likely have to wear Nick’s clothes home; part of him is, distantly, pleased at the thought. He tucks his head down to his shoulder, breathing in. The shirt he’s got on smells clean, and, vaguely, like Nick. It’s a comforting thing, with Nick gone.

Something brushes against Harry’s ankles. It’s the shop cat, which, upon noticing Harry’s attention, meows up at him, plaintive.

“Hullo, Finchy. Haven’t got anything for you today,” Harry says, apologetic. The cat meows at him again anyway. “Y’know, a cat turned up when I got - attacked or whatever, too. Friend of yours?”

Finchy weaves around his ankles, tail twitching.

“Ah, you just want breakfast, probably. Well, Nick’ll be back - there we go!” Harry and the cat both perk up simultaneously at the sound of the door opening.

Breakfast is an awkward affair. Harry insists on feeding himself. If he had both hands the idea of Nick hand-feeding him would be delightful, but on this particular morning he can’t handle it at all. It means he eats slowly and awkwardly. His left hand was never as coordinated as his right.

Nick finds some clothes that fit Harry well enough for a journey home, then helps hail a carriage that’s passing by in the street. The horse drawing the carriage is a bedraggled grey nag, head drooping over a body held up by three spindly legs it was born with and a fourth it clearly wasn’t. 

The horse’s last leg is mismatched, sewn on just above the knee from some other horse, the necrotic flesh attenuated and the skin clinging too-tight to bone, looking dried out and leathery. The mismatched leg represents some last-ditch effort to extend the animal’s life, however briefly. It’s a misguided display of affection for an animal that should have been put down the moment it lost its leg, yet Harry can’t bring himself to blame the owner for it.

It’s a miserable solution, not one bound to last, but there it is. That the leg hasn’t been rejected entirely is a wonder in and of itself. At some point that fourth leg is bound to rot, and spread gangrenous decay to the rest of the animal. Still, its the first carriage to pass by that’s for hire, and Harry doesn’t feel like waiting any longer, despite Nick’s dubious expression when he spies the leg in question.

Nick offers to come along, before he gets in the carriage, but Harry shakes him off, feeling unbalanced and awkward and not quite wanting to be around Nick just then, no matter how kind and helpful Nick’s being. Harry doesn’t want Nick’s pity, not that Nick is acting particularly pitying. 

The carriage moves at a tolerable pace, at least, bumping along over the cobbled streets. Harry looks out the window of the carriage the whole way. Probably the numbness will fade, eventually, and at some point Harry will re-engage with the rest of the world. Right now everything feels a bit hollow.

He keeps thinking about the horse. 

-

Harry’s back at his flat with fifteen minutes to spare, cradling the newt in its little terrarium in the crook of his right arm. There are still plants where he set them the other day before going to meet Nick, and those need placed, though moving them about feels awkward.

He’s already getting used to the lack, navigating the world one-handed. It’s a frustrating experience, things that should be simple requiring extra thought, but he’ll get over it eventually. He has to.

Getting his space arranged for fortune telling takes a bit of doing, too. He tends to operate out of his flat, which, while less than impressive, is at least convenient and doesn’t require him paying extra rent.

The one thing he didn’t count on being more difficult was working magic. He’s so used to visualizing things with his hands, manipulating magic as much by feel as anything else, that only having one hand to pluck at imaginary threads with feels stilted. At least he can imagine the other hand, pulling at things, and it works the same, though slower, more prone to error.

He darkens the windows, sets little lights drifting dull red through the air before pulling out a heavy velvet cloth to cover his table with.

As ever, Miss Swift turns up ten minutes late, bless her; Harry’s got time to finish and sit down just before she knocks. That means he has to get up again, and make sure his sleeve’s pinned up over his arm, which he does.

Pulling the door open, he ducks his head in a slight bow, stepping back to let her inside. Miss Swift is radiant in white, seeming to bring some of the sunlight outdoors with her - though there is, of course, very little sun today, the sky clouded over and a mucky fog clinging to the cracks in the streets and any low places it can find to accumulate.

“Morning, Miss,” Harry says, cheerfully playing up his accent the best he can, letting his words drawl out a little longer than he otherwise might. This particular client of his comes from the Americas, and seems to still be charmed by British-ness as a whole. Despite feeling exhausted, Harry puts on the best show he can - this is, after all, his job, or one of them, and that’s true hand or no hand, monsters or no monsters.

“Hello, Harold,” she answers with a cheerful sing-song, meandering her way through the front room to the little table Harry’s set up. Before he can offer her a seat, she pulls it out herself, sitting down and crossing her legs, adjusting her skirt so it’s not too trapped under her and she can move a little more freely. After a moment’s pause, she frowns at him. “Has something changed? Did you get a haircut? I don’t like it.”

“No haircut,” Harry says, laughing a little. Either she can figure out the difference herself, or he’ll let it slide. They don’t see each other often, after all. He goes to the watery little terrarium the newt’s currently lazing about in, and flounders around for a while trying to catch it.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to get this newt.”

“What does that have to do with getting my fortune told?”

“It’s got a - a poison, sort of, that helps with visions,” Harry says, absently, as he tries again to catch it and it wriggles out of his hand once more. “Hallucinations of things past, that kind of thing. And then it’s intestines are a lovely divining tool -”

“Its intestines?” she asks, horrified. “You’re not going to gut the poor thing, are you?”

“Well, I was,” Harry says.

“You don’t have to do all that. I talked to a friend of mine, he said most of what you fortune tellers do is for show and you can just close your eyes and do it all the same.”

Harry shakes his head and laughs. He can’t catch the damn newt anyway, and, much as he enjoys the showmanship, cutting open a newt and then finding a way to dispose of it later wasn’t something he looked forward to. Plus, he’d rather not lie outright, so he says, “That may be true for some of us.”

“Such as yourself?”

“Well, yeah,” Harry allows, finally, giving up on capturing the slippery little amphibian and going to sit down across the table from her. He rests his arms on the table for a moment, his left hand crossed over his right arm. It’s still sore, but the pressure feels nice. He curls his fingers a little tighter. 

There’s briny water drying on his hand, that he lets evaporate into the air rather than wipe on his trousers solely for propriety’s sake. The newt is euryhalinic, but does best in slightly salty water, living mostly on the north coast of France and edging into Belgium with little regard for national boundaries. Considering the newt’s rarified diet and water preferences, if he’s going to have the thing around for long, he’ll need to actually look into its care and keeping.

Hopefully it can take fresh water. 

Fortune telling, for all it’s maligned, does require some artfulness in picking out the disparate threads of a person’s life, finding actual connections in their past, sorting the wheat from the chaff. It can, at times, be like trying to identify the coo of a single pigeon in all of London, or like trying to find one of the dolphins in the Thames during a storm. So it takes focus, finding things, and from there it’s all guesswork.

Much as believers like to think fortune tellers have some secret window onto the future, not one of them - near as Harry can tell - actually does. This is mostly because, and Harry will admit to having tried to glance ahead, there are things that dwell there, in that instant before a moment happens, and they don’t take kindly to human awareness turning on them.

Harry’s seen what happens to people who looks ahead.

So he looks back, and guesses from there, and tells her what she wants to hear - that she may have had bad luck in love to date, but she’ll find someone, and so on. It goes well enough, Harry figures.

Well enough that she pays up, and tips him extra at the end, which is a nice touch and not something he’s about to turn down, even though he already overcharges.

He’s only just finished when there’s a tap at the window, a pigeon standing there looking self-important.

“Excuse me,” he says, because Miss Swift has yet to leave, and was only just gathering her things.

“Oh, your hand,” she says, belatedly, as he tries to pry the window open one-handed. He keeps thinking he could manage it fine if he were using his right hand, but the angle feels awkward and he’s grumpy and tired. She comes over, helps him get it open.

The pigeon coos impatiently, lifting its leg.

Miss Swift retrieves the little message and hands it to Harry without reading it. “You used to have both your hands, last time I saw you. Has it -”

“Yesterday,” Harry says.

“And you didn’t cancel? Wow, Harry,” she says, and he can see the pity on her face. It makes him look away. “I could’ve waited. I mean, thank you, but.” She stops talking and takes a step back, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. So if you’re on your feet - you got it healed up by magic, right?”

Harry shrugs, biting at his lip as he unfolds the message the pigeon brought one-handed. The bird’s still waiting, probably expecting a reply, so he may as well read it now. 

It’s from Niall - which Harry should have guessed, really, since none of the others are prone to sending pigeons - who, apparently, heard something and wants to know if Harry’s all right and if Harry wants lunch, so Harry sees Miss Swift off, finally, with a, “Thank you, I’ll see you again next time you’re in London?” and then sets to writing his reply.

This is the first time he’s tried to write anything since. There are a lot of other things, he realizes vaguely, he’s going to have to do for the first time, but writing seems particularly dreadful, as he tries to hold the paper in place and scrawl out his answer one-handed.

He ends up scrawling out a barely legible reply, of Hi Niall, Lunch sounds good, 1 o clock? and then gives up before folding it up very small and managing to finagle it under the string that’s still tied ‘round the pigeon’s leg before shooing the bird back out the window.

That gives him an hour to try and rest, which he does to the best of his ability, lying on his bed and staring up at the whitewashed wood of the ceiling, wondering why they bothered with the thin layer of paint instead of leaving the wood bare. Maybe he’s better off not knowing.

Seeing Niall will be good. He likes Niall, and it’s been a while since the two of them have gone anyplace. Niall goes back and forth between London and Ireland a little too often to be convenient, and though he used to herald every arrival and departure with a party, it’s become a little too routine these days. Harry did see Niall earlier in the week, at least, but he’s still looking forward to the time.

Suddenly, Harry finds himself thinking about how many times he’s going to have to explain how he lost his hand, and the sheer number of people who are going to wonder about it. There’s the boys and Simon and Caroline and Gemma and his mum who all need to know, still, and a huge number of people Harry’s sure he’s forgetting.

The mere idea of having to talk about it to so many people stuns Harry, and he shakes his head, trying to think about something else. He can’t let himself dwell too much. He’ll get used to it, and he’ll get used to explaining, and it’s fine. If he doesn’t at least act fine, his friends will worry, and he’d rather avoid upsetting any of them if possible.

Even deep breaths don’t calm him as well as they might. Getting out of bed, Harry wanders his flat, then leaves altogether too early, taking a very roundabout route to where he’s meeting with Niall.

Some part of him fears he’ll encounter the monster again, but the streets are lively and full of people despite the dreary weather, and Harry tells himself that lightning likely won’t strike twice.

The police will deal with the monster and London will be normal again. Normal as London ever is, at least.

Slightly safer, anyway. Everything’s going to be fine.

-

“Harry!” Niall crows, delighted, getting up from his chair to pull Harry into a hug. He pulls away, holds Harry at arm’s length, hands on Harry’s shoulders. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry says. “Hiya, Niall. How are you?”

“I’m fine, I’m all right,” Niall says. Then: “Fuck, I heard rumors something happened last night, but nobody could tell me what. Here I was thinking you’d just messed it up with Grimmy or something.”

“How’d you know about Grimmy?” Harry asks, baffled.

“Oh, Louis said.” Niall shrugs, laughing. “It’s a small world, yeah? But - no, really, how are you, are you okay? Your bloody hand, fuck.”

Harry tries to smile, narrowly. “At least I’m not dead.”

“True enough, and thank all that’s good for that.” Niall presses a hand over his heart, briefly, shoulders slumping. “Shit and fuck, Harry. I’m sorry. Really, though, what happened?”

“You going to tell everyone else?”

Niall grins, slightly, apologetic. “Probably.”

“Good,” Harry decides, and tells him, as best he can, somewhat faltering as he tries to explain - the sense of unease before it happened feels important, but he feels stupid mentioning it. Trying to explain why he just stood there’s hard, too. 

He gets through, though, Niall shaking his head at the end of it.

“Awful,” Niall says. “That’s an awful mess. So are you going to hunt it down, get back at the thing? You that captain out of Moby Dick now?”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Harry asks. “Are you mad? Of course I’m not going after it! I don’t even know what it is!”

“Harry, Harry, come on. This is obviously your big chance. A big adventure. Revenge! Tragedy! Romance!”

“Oh, come off it. There’s none of that.”

“Not even a little romance?” Niall asks, disappointed. “I thought Nick took you in. That’s romantic.”

“I dunno,” Harry says. “It was - like, it was really nice of him, yeah, and I wouldn’t mind if - but like, is he still gonna be interested? That’s an awful way to start things off.”

“He’d be a twat if he decided he wasn’t interested ‘coz you got attacked by a monster on your first date,” Niall says, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. “You think he would?”

“Nah. I mean, I don’t know, he could do. I don’t know! That’s the thing.”

“Well, that’s no reason to write him off, then,” Niall decides, cheerful. “Now, tell me how you’re going to kill the monster.”

“I should probably find out what it is, first,” Harry says, trying not to roll his eyes. “Then I’m going to report it to the police. How’s that sound?”

“Fantastic.” Niall pauses. “What’re the police going to do about it? Are you going to work with -”

“They’re going to handle it. By themselves,” Harry says. “Alone. Without me.”

“If you say so.”

-

A week goes by where Harry doesn’t really see anyone except the people he’s got appointments with, telling their fortunes for them, putting on as good a show as he can. The rest of the time, he sleeps or wastes his money eating out because he doesn’t want to try cooking like this.

It’s a decent week, all told, but by the end of it he’s getting the itch of cabin fever. That’s probably for the best. He’s a social sort, likes being around people, and the loneliness is getting to him. He decides one night, quite suddenly, that he’s done with all this sulking - not that he’s been sulking - and that he’s going to go out. He files a report with the police, first, just in case they can find anything out, then he decides what he really wants is to party.

So he does, and that’s all right, and he almost gets with a girl then decides better of it - not because she’s not great, but because he’d rather not, just now, to her disappointment and his own vague surprise. Talking to people’s fun, though, as is drinking, and socializing, and sometime around one in the morning he starts getting that creeping sense of existential dread again.

The whole party seems to feel it, actually, not just him. Everything gets a little quieter - the band, the conversation, the atmosphere. Harry drinks more, and vows to spend the whole night there.

The next morning, on the way home, he hears tell that two people he’d talked to the night before were found dead near the river.

He wonders how long he can get away with telling himself it’s none of his business.

The whole city seems to huddle in on itself, word of the mysterious deaths spreading. People whisper to each other. Conversations get quieter. Market days are underattended, by vendors and customers both.

Nights in the city take on their own strange, miserable cast, and hardly anyone seems willing to go out in it anymore save for police and angels. Shadows creep further and further from their established bounds, and the fog seems to last longer than necessary, hanging wet and heavy over everything, filling up empty spaces with its own surprising malevolence.

Half the cities fairy-lights have gone out, and refuse to be rekindled; flickering gas-light is all that’s left, leaving huge swathes of city swamped in darkness far earlier than usual, installation of new pipes and outlets not going any faster than usual despite the concerned murmurs over the lack of illumination..

Harry’s not a fan of any of it.

He’s bundled up in bed with a book when there’s a knock at the door, and he startles, with a little yelp, nearly managing to fall out of bed entirely before getting his bearings again, putting the book down as careful as he can and going to the door.

Today was meant to be a day off. If he’s forgotten some appointment or another, he’s going to be cross with himself.

Opening the door, he’s all ready to apologize, only it’s Nick Grimshaw, who makes like he’s going to wave then goes in for a hug, instead.

Harry hasn’t had a hug in a while, honestly - there was the party, which wasn’t spectacular but did earn him some cuddles, and that’s been about it. He was quite drunk for that, too, and it’s nice, is all, and he mumbles a muffled, “Hi, Nick,” against Nick’s shoulder. Then, after a hesitant pause, “How d’you know where I live?”

“Asked around,” Nick says, pulling away. “Sorry, I thought I’d see how you were. Was that weird?”

“S’all right,” Harry says. “That’s nice. Come in, then, if you want. Did you want tea?”

“I’m all right,” Nick says, and steps in, shutting the door behind him. He pulls a bag off his shoulder, letting it drop to the floor. “Brought you some things.”

Harry stares at him.

“Well, I figured - like, it’s got to be harder cooking, right, unless it’s not, but I brought you some food, anyway, and.” Nick stops, laughing at himself. “Fuck, this is awful, I must seem like a twat. Is that condescending of me? I can’t believe I’ve only just thought of this now.”

“What?” Harry says. “No, it’s nice. That’s nice.”

“Thought you might not want to see me, actually,” Nick goes on, rambling. “You hadn’t been ‘round in a while, and I thought, well, all right, maybe it’d bring up bad memories, but then I thought, well, I might as well go see, and - yeah.”

“Shouldn’t you be running your business right now?”

“Got Finchy to watch the shop,” Nick says, cheerful. “Matt Fincham, that is, not the cat.”

“The cat would probably do an all right job,” Harry says, going to put the kettle on. “Finchy’s very smart for a cat.”

“Not too bright for a person,” Nick says, sadly, and Harry laughs easily enough at the humor. He knows Matt all right, having run into him any number of times while trailing about after Nick like a lost puppy. “Right, though, thought I’d check up on you. See if you were all right.”

“I’m all right,” Harry decides, stepping back to wait for the water to boil. He looks at Nick for a moment, then shuffles in, going for an unannounced hug. Nick seems surprised for the briefest of moments, then curls around him, almost protective, rubbing a hand over Harry’s back. “Hi. S’nice you came.”

“Oh, good,” Nick says.

“Didn’t want to bother you or anything, I guess,” Harry says. “After - well, everything, yeah? Got embarrassed.”

“What about?” Nick asks, genuinely confused. Harry presses his face to Nick’s neck, breathing in.

“Dunno. Never mind,” Harry says. Nick’s warm, and for the first time in a while, Harry feels safe. There’s no particular reason for that, he knows - it’s not as if Nick was able to protect him last time, though Nick did keep him safe and get him patched up afterwards, so there’s that.

Nick did an awful lot he was under no obligation to do, actually, now that Harry thinks about it more. He’s been avoiding thinking about Nick and that night to the best of his ability, only Nick was really, really nice to him, and Harry likes him to an unreasonable degree. His eyes sting a bit. He’s not going to cry. Definitely not.

Holding onto Nick like a lifeline is a perfectly mature and reasonable way to spend an afternoon.

Eventually, Nick says, “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Harry pulls away, just a little, tilting his head up to look at Nick. “Yeah, I’m all right.”

Nick licks his lips, and Harry decides he may as well try again. Last time he got the chance to kiss Nick, the evening got cut short in the worst way, but surely that can’t happen again, so he tilts his head a little, eyes half closed in anticipation.

With his gaze dropped to Nick’s mouth as it is, he can see the movement of Nick’s throat when he swallows. He meets Nick’s eyes.

“Well, good,” Nick says, and Harry destroys the distance between them, feeling needy and wanting, hopeful that Nick’ll be game for it. Nick lets out a breath almost like a laugh, bringing a hand up to curl at the back of Harry’s neck, keeping him close. His hold’s nice and solid, like he has no intention of letting go.

Harry’s standing straighter than usual, Nick slouching down, so their heights are near-equal despite Nick generally having the advantage. It’s nice, anyway. Harry brings his hand up to press at Nick’s chest, pushing him back.

Nick startles, says, “What?”

“Bed’s this way,” Harry explains into the sudden space between them, pushing Nick toward the aforementioned piece of furniture without hesitation.

“Oh, well,” Nick says, and Harry pushes him down against the mattress once they’ve backed all the way there, crawling on top of him once Nick’s settled on the bed.

This is the first time, since that night, that he’s got with anyone. He’s glad it’s Nick, glad he’s getting this chance. He’d worried he might not. 

“Here I thought I’d bring you lunch, cheer you up -” Nick’s saying, laughing, as Harry mouths curiously at his neck.

“This works,” Harry tells him. “I’m cheered.”

“Yeah, s’good,” Nick says. “This works.”

Harry could probably spend half the night just looking at Nick, honestly. He even finds the dark circles under Nick’s eyes attractive, and the strange angle of his nose. He’s spent long enough looking, though. “Here, get all that off,” Harry says, hopeful and a bit hesitant about it suddenly, with a shy little smile. He tugs at Nick’s jacket and waistcoat, gaze twitching between Nick’s face and his clothes. “Yeah?”

Nick sets to shucking his layers, tossing the jacket aside and being a little more careful with the waistcoat and buttondown. Harry helps, but getting himself dressed one handed’s been enough of a feat. Undressing someone else is a whole other hurdle. Nick’s understanding, at least, and Harry’s all the most besotted because of it. Soon as the shirt’s off, he leans in and kisses Nick, quick, again and again, glad he’s able to.

He sits back, tracing his hand down Nick’s chest, letting his fingernails just barely scrape against the skin, dragging his fingers back up just to go against the grain of Nick’s chest hair, needlessly amused.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re good looking?” Harry asks, feeling almost clever.

“Could be,” Nick says. “Wouldn’t mind hearing it from you, though.”

“Well, you are,” Harry tells him. “Think I’ll suck you off now, actually.”

Nick’s eyes widen, and he laughs, delighted.

Harry’s just managed to fumble Nick’s trousers open when there’s a knock at the door. He considers ignoring it, but it comes again, then the third time a shout accompanies the knocking.

“Harry, I know you’re home!”

“Fucking -” Harry cuts himself off with a miserable groan, sitting back. He hadn’t even got Nick’s cock out yet. He’d wanted to see it. 

“Me and Liam have got a surprise for you!”

“All right, all right, just a moment,” Harry calls back, loud as he can. He turns to Nick with an apologetic grimace. “Why’s everyone picked today to come over? Is it just that kind of day?”

“Apparently so,” Nick says, sitting up and gathering his shirt, pulling it on and buttoning it back up again before getting his waistcoat as well.

At least Harry hadn’t taken anything off yet, eager as he was to make Nick undress. He pads his way over to the door, chancing a glance over his shoulder. Nick’s followed, though at a bit of a distance, and leans against the wall, watching Harry. He nods, slightly, and Harry sighs and pulls the door open.

“Hiya, Lou -” he starts, but Louis storms his way in, sweeping Harry up in a hug.

“Harry! We would’ve come by sooner, but me and Liam had an idea, and then we both got so caught up,” Louis’s saying, exuberant. Liam gets in on the hug, too, both of them holding Harry tight, which is nice, but he feels a little awkward and still put off by them showing up, so he’s torn between properly appreciating it and asking if they could maybe just leave.

“What Louis means to say is, we’ve decided to see about working a little magic,” Liam says. “To help you out, only we hadn’t seen you, so I said we should come by and see if you’d be up for it first, but - well.”

“We’ll need to take some measurements, get everything all sort of - fine-tuned, you know,” Louis says, obviously still excited, until something catches his eye and he looks away from Harry at last. “Is that - Nick! Nicholas Grimshaw, hello.” 

That gets Liam and Louis to let go, at least.

Louis raises his eyebrows, arch and judgmental. Near as Harry can tell, Louis likes the idea of NIck, but doesn’t like Nick himself. How that works, Harry’s never quite determined, but Louis’s been trying to encourage him to go after Nick since the first time Harry mentioned him almost, and has hated him nearly as long.

At least Liam doesn’t mind him, though probably that’s because Liam has little idea who he is. Harry’s learned his lesson in going on about Nick from Louis’s bizarre reaction. 

“Tomlinson,” Nick says, warm despite Louis’s vague hostility. “How are you?”

“I’m all right. Visiting Haz, are we?”

“Same as you,” Nick agrees.

“I doubt it,” Louis says, frowning as he eyes both of them.

“Not quite the same, then,” Nick says. He shrugs, apparently unswayed by Louis’s glare. “I brought him some food, is all. We were going to have tea.”

Harry completely forgot about the tea, actually, which is still sitting on the counter in mugs steeping, as it has been for much too long. 

“You didn’t make him make it himself, did you?” Louis asks, accusing.

Nick stares at him.

“I can make tea still,” Harry says, tiredly, sort of laughing despite himself. “It’s just difficult, is all. I’m not dead!”

“You made it yourself, didn’t you,” Louis sighs. “And with Nick here, perfectly capable of doing it himself. This is tragic.”

“Look, though,” Liam says, awkward, trying a smile. He looks so uncomfortable Harry can’t help but feel bad. He gives Liam a hug, both because he can and because Liam’s good at hugs, a fact Liam’s apparently happy to prove. Louis gets in on it, too, swooping in from the side to hug the both of them. Liam goes on. “You want to hear what our surprise is?”

“No, I hate surprises,” Harry mumbles, happy to stay exactly where he is. He wouldn’t mind if Nick were to hug him, too, but he supposes he can’t be too greedy. Affection’s nice, is all.

“It’s a good one,” Louis says. “Or it will be, if we can get it to work properly.”

“Get what to work?” Harry asks.

Louis steps back, which prompts Liam to back off, too. Liam clasps his hands behind his back.

Louis puts his hands on his hips. “See, Liam’s gotten quite good lately, hasn’t he? And I’ve been - well, also getting quite good at my job, and we heard about the whole … hand thing.”

“Right,” Harry says, bewildered.

“And so we thought - well, there’s wooden legs and all, and that’s all right, but that doesn’t help you, does it? But I was looking through this journal by some researchers working out of the Americas, right, and -”

“Get to it,” Nick says, with a laugh. “What’s your point?”

“The point, Grimshaw,” Louis says, crossing his arms, “is Liam and I can make Harry a new hand.”

“What?” Harry says, Nick echoing him a half second later.

“We’ve got a working model,” Louis says. “Well, working as in it’s metal and it moves; it’s just a matter of making sure we can actually connect the wiring to live nerves. Can’t really test that on a mouse, after all.”

“I’d make you a better one,” Liam says. “My first try wasn’t that good, but I think I’ve figured out all the joints now.”

“A - really?” Harry says after a moment. “Wait, if Liam made it - so it’s metal?”

“Yeah,” Liam says. “Better than none.”

“It’s that or we find a fresh corpse and do a transplant,” Louis says, shrugging, and entirely too earnest. “Chance of rejection or infection go way, way up if we take that route, though. You can’t really sterilize a hand you plan on reusing. Plus, we wouldn’t know until we tried if there was nerve damage, and … it’s not worth it.”

Harry makes a face. “Yeah, I’d really rather not.”

Nick goes to get his mug of tea, then leans back against the wall, sipping at it. “Well, looks like we’ve got a project, then. You’re going to need supplies, right?”

“Well, I’ve got the steel already,” Liam says. “Just need wiring, really. Copper, probably. Gold for the connection points, since it won’t corrode.”

“As long as it works, I don’t care if it corrodes,” Harry says. He still feels sort of detached, surprised this is even an option, that Liam and Louis are here. He doesn’t resent the interruption any longer, at least.

“You will if it stops working,” Liam says, laughing. “I mean, I don’t mind repairs, but I don’t know what that’d do to your nerves -”

“You’re going to be something of a test case as it is,” Louis admits, almost sheepish now. “I think it’d be best to play it safe.”

“All right.” Harry shrugs, finally starting to feel hopeful. “You’d know best. Just so long as I’m, y’know, personally furthering the causes of science and magic whilst you test.”

“Right, that’s what’s really important,” Nick says, laughing. Harry turns a little to beam at him - he’d gotten distracted, but he really is glad Nick’s still hanging ‘round. “Science. Not your health and wellness.”

“Precisely,” Harry says. He wants to kiss Nick again. He’s pretty sure Nick wouldn’t mind, but Liam and Louis would, so he refrains, instead just grinning stupidly, unable to help himself now. The muscles of his face hurt a little how hard he’s smiling, actually, even as he unconsciously rubs at his right arm.

He hadn’t hoped for much better than a hook, something dumb and simple. Nor had he actually looked into any sort of solutions, or done much of anything at all besides sit around and mope and fret over the state of the city, trying his very hardest to fret over himself. 

Liam and Louis end up hanging around long enough that Nick needs to go actually do his job, so Harry waves him off, feeling shy and giddy all at once, giving Nick a quick, tight hug before he goes.

Then it’s back to talking with Liam and Louis, who are going over technical details. Most of it’s beyond Harry, honestly. The magic parts make sense enough, but it’s the iatrochemistry and metallurgy that leave him bewildered, so he mostly just allows himself to sit between them on the sofa and enjoy spending time with people he likes who like him back.

Harry might have been craving affection recently. Possibly. That Liam and Louis have put this much thought and time and effort into helping him impresses Harry, though. He thinks, if he were good at anything in particular, he’d do the same, if they had need of his talents. He’s not, and they don’t, but that’s all right. 

Hours pass like that, with Harry only chiming in every now and then. At one point, he falls asleep with his head on Liam’s shoulder, waking up of his own volition some indeterminate period of time later, the hazy sky outside muting the light so he can’t tell how long it’s been.

Louis is just stirring. Harry squints his eyes at him.

“Got to get to work,” Louis says, finally. “Got a late afternoon shift.”

“Time’s it end?” Harry asks, yawning.

“‘Round eleven,” Louis says. “Barring any catastrophe.”

“You going to be all right getting home that late?”

“I hope so.” Louis laughs. “Why, d’you want me to come back when I’ve finished work?”

Harry considers, then, still feeling a bit tired and safe, says, “Yeah, that’d be nice, thanks.”

Louis says his goodbyes, then leaves at last. Harry draws himself upright, stretching his arms high over his head. He feels slightly stiff, having slept like that, but it’s not bad. Liam’s leg is still warm against his.

“You have to leave too?”

“Not unless you want me to,” Liam says, shrugging. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Yeah, I’m all right. It was nice seeing you two. Glad you came by.”

“Sorry if we bored you,” Liam says, his smile sheepish. The apology seems genuine. Liam’s always been quite genuine, though. “Oh, Niall said you were going to go monster-hunting. Is that true?”

“Fucking Niall.” Harry shakes his head.

“You’re not?” Liam sounds almost disappointed. “That’s probably wise.”

Harry laughs, bewildered. He’s used to Liam being quite practical. “Don’t sound so happy about it. I don’t even know what it is, let alone how to - to fight it, or whatever.”

“Well, it eats magic, right? That’s a start.”

Harry pauses. “Does it?”

“Seems like it,” Liam says. “You said it was like there wasn’t any magic around it, and then it ate the magic out your hand, and the lights’ve been going out … Sort of assumed that was what was going on.”

Harry sits back, letting his head fall backward and stares up at the ceiling. He can’t find any fault in Liam’s theory. “Well, fuck.”

Liam sits forward, hands clasped on his knees, brows furrowed as he thinks. “You think there’s more than one?”

“Shit, probably,” Harry says. “It’d be our luck. It’s probably a whole - species. Fuck knows why they’ve turned up now, though. It’s late, right? I’ll go to the library tomorrow, see if I can’t find anything out.”

“Thought you weren’t getting into it.”

“I’m not!” Harry bristles a little at that, briefly, then shakes his head with a rueful smile. “I probably am. I’ll just turn the information over, though. That’s enough, right? And I mean - there’s nothing you and I could think of that the police wouldn’t think of themselves.”

Liam shrugs. “They haven’t done anything about it yet. There’s no harm in researching.”

“That’s how it starts,” Harry says, wagging a finger at Liam. “That’s how it starts! I’m going to end up on some pilgrimage to the end of the earth, and it’s going to be awful.”

“I hope you don’t.”

“I’d rather not leave London,” Harry agrees, sighing. He closes his eyes, and curls up against Liam’s side again, grateful for the company. “You got anywhere to be?”

“Said I didn’t.”

“You want lunch? Nick brought food over, I think. Didn’t really get to it.”

“Yeah, cheers.”

-

Harry presses his hand over his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose and leaning back in the chair just in time to be caught off guard by a hand on his shoulder. He jerks upright, almost falling backwards, only getting his balance and righting the chair by luck.

“Sorry, lad,” the old librarian says. “Library’s about to close for the day.”

“Right,” Harry says. He rubs his hand against his nose, then scoots back in the chair when the librarian’s stepped aside. “Should I put these back, or -”

“S’all right, it’s what I’m paid for,” the librarian says. “Did you want to check any of those out, though?”

“Nah.” Harry sighs. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

The next week passes like that - Harry gets up at mid-day, and reads through book after book, bestiary upon bestiary, from ones put out in the past decade to moldering old books written by hand, dated using some arcane system he can’t be bothered trying to convert, in languages he only barely knows.

The days should be getting warmer, sunlight lasting longer, but instead the early spring chill hangs, stretching weeks longer than it should, fog creeping further and further past its usual bounds and receding reluctantly.

London feels damp and oppressive. Each night grows a little darker, more and more lights snuffed out. The city seems caught in some strange, lingering dream, the sidewalks perpetually rheumy in the humid air.

Warm coats outstay their welcome. Harry had folded all his jumpers up and put them away in anticipation of warm days to come, but he ends up getting them back out all too soon.

Liam and Louis begin their work, taking up Harry’s evenings. Nick comes by some nights, and will sit talking with Harry while Liam and Louis bow their heads together. Harry’s glad of the company, though he wishes he could spend the time with Nick and only Nick, find some chance to pick up where they left off.

Still, the new hand is progressing nicely, even in the abbreviated days. Louis takes careful measure of Harry’s left hand, the precise length of each joint, and Liam works off those numbers, mirrors them for the right.

Liam sits at the little table where Harry usually takes his meals, whispering things to the metal, stroking and coaxing it into tiny, intricate shapes, imitating bone and tendon, connecting stainless steel joints.

Slowly but surely, it takes shape. Louis talks Liam through it, leaning across the narrow table to look, correcting things here and there. The only reason, as far as Harry can tell, that they’re working here - rather than at Liam’s workshop or at Louis’s surgery or anywhere else, is to keep Harry company, which he appreciates.

Both Liam and Louis still have jobs, of course, so the times they’re able to both work simultaneously vary, spanning anywhere from an hour to a near day at a time. It’s delicate, careful work.

When Liam runs out of one thing or another - misjudging the amount of copper he’d need at one point, deciding he’d like to use silver at another - Nick’s the one to go fetch things.

And when he has time, Harry keeps going back to the library. The librarian eyes him with vague concern, but leaves him alone when Harry shrugs off offers of help. Asking for help feels like admitting he’s going to do something, and he still wishes he weren’t.

The death toll continues to rise, just as slowly and surely as the progress on Harry’s hand. As the days stretch into a week, two weeks, a month, those that can begin to leave London. The ravens still wing over head, casting their shadows, but old stories aren’t enough to reassure those fearing death.

No patterns emerge. Those killed are random, from rich industrialists to shut-in scholars to schoolchildren. London’s stray cats and dogs and rats grow bolder, their nocturnal scurrying extending into the feeble daylight, open and brazen..

The streets of the city are still crowded with people, and shops still see business, but everything’s slightly frantic, everyone in a hurry to get home and shut themselves away indoors. The insides of buildings aren’t any safer, as victims have been found in stairwells and lonely flats, or discovered in bed the next morning with nothing around them disturbed and no sign of what did it. Still the people of London cling to their illusions, and there’s none to begrudge them that.

Certainly not the ragged, unaccountable pack that circles and hunts the city’s teeming masses of humanity, their choice of prey inscrutable.

-

“All right, Harry,” Louis says, brightly. “You ready for our first test?”

Harry nods, eager, and stands to see. He hasn’t bothered checking progress, but there it is - an almost skeletal device of gleaming steel and bright copper, interspersed with gold and silver.

“All right. If you can actually sit down - turn the chair out a bit, face me? There we are,” Louis says, and ends up kneeling in front of Harry. “This’d be easier at the surgery, but here we are.”

“Would it be easier if I laid on the table?” Harry asks, laughing a little.

“Nah, this’s fine. Better conditions than I’d face if we were trying this in, say, a field camp in Anatolia.”

“You’ve never been to Anatolia,” Liam points out, sitting on the edge of the table and watching. “Could be quite nice, you don’t know.”

“It could be,” Louis agrees, rolling his eyes. He unpins Harry’s folded-over sleeve carefully, clicking his tongue as he takes Harry’s arm, pressing his fingers down. “How’s that feel?”

“All right.”

“Good, good,” Louis says, then proceeds to work his magic. Harry closes his eyes, rather than watch the way Louis opens him up, working the closed-over flesh like clay. Just feeling it’s enough to put Harry on edge, and he grits his teeth. “All right?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. He can’t tell how much time passes.

Eventually, Louis says, “Liam, give me that. If you can hold it steady -”

At the first connection of metal to nerve, Harry jerks upright from the lazy slouch he’d fallen into, nearly biting his tongue. He manages not to cry out, at least, despite the surprise and sudden sharp sensation.

There’s more after that, little jolts, runnels of magic worming their way in between, folding around bone, closing things off and opening others in unfamiliar pathways. 

Harry can barely breathe. The pain’s not like any he’s felt before, but it’s for a good cause, he reminds himself. This will be worth it. Then he remembers Louis mentioning this was a test, meaning he’ll have to face it again. He swallows, hard, his other hand digging into the fabric of his jeans.

“Almost there,” Louis says, quiet. Liam rubs at Harry’s back, hovering by with friendly concern. “And - there.”

Harry squints one eye open, in time to see Louis lean over where the hand’s now connected. Louis exhales, and Harry feels it.

It’s strange. The new hand feels cold, but Harry can feel it. He raises his arm to look at it.

“Try moving it,” Louis urges, eager, looking up at him.

Harry does. It takes a moment, movements feeling rusty and unfamiliar, but the fingers bend. The motion is jerky, slow. He feels clumsy and slightly sick to his stomach. It feels like his hand’s gone numb, almost, prickling strangely at every belabored attempt at motion. Still, however slowly, it works.

“How’s that feel?” Louis asks, more excited now. “Liam! Look at that. That’s amazing, it’s -”

“Kind of hurts,” Harry says, faintly. He feels dizzy, almost vertiginous.

“That’s all right, it was bound to,” Louis says. “Try making a fist. Can you do that? Or wiggle your fingers, I don’t know, or both -”

Harry tries. He feels cold. Magic skitters clumsily along the wires, transferring signals along imitation pathways, clumsy and curious about it. He spreads the hand’s fingers, head pounding unpleasantly, stomach rolling.

Trying to close them again is too much, the sensation of metal on metal confusing and painful, and Harry has to turn aside, curling his left arm around his stomach as he tries desperately not to be sick.

“Harry,” Louis says. “Harry. Are you all right?”

“Not really.”

“All right, all right, shh,” Louis says, and touches Harry’s knee, and Harry falls asleep without meaning to, still nauseous and miserable.

-

When he wakes up again, the hand’s back on the table, his sleeve pinned over his arm once more. Liam and Louis are on the other side of the room, debating something amongst themselves.

Harry sighs, rolling his shoulders forward then back.

“You awake?” Liam asks, suddenly, looking up.

“Guess so.”

“Sorry about that,” Louis says. “I knew it wouldn’t be perfect, but I didn’t think it would go that badly. We’ll try again in a day or two, all right?”

Harry hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, all right.”

They leave him alone the next few days, which is actually a relief. Harry gets to spend more time hunched over library books, reading about the anatomy and physiology of creatures he’s never heard of before this, spanning as far as British explorers have gone, and some still further, reported by rumor and information passed along lines of trade in remote regions.

Outside, a cold wind blows, cutting through from some parallel plane. Harry can feel it even inside, surrounded by miles of books. The library closes for the night, and Harry still hasn’t found anything.

Halfway home, he decides he’d rather go visit Nick, see how he’s been. They’ve seen each other regularly enough, but Harry’s missing him and hopes Nick won’t mind him turning up. He still hasn’t told Nick about the first abortive test of the hand, among other things, but mostly he wants to touch somebody who wants him to, wants to be touched by Nick.

It’s a little while yet until Nick closes up shop, so Harry goes to get coffee nearby. The sun’s still up, for all that’s worth, a dim glow spread out by the ever-present cloud cover. 

London’s no warmer than it was the night Harry first saw that thing on the tube.

As he sits inside, staring out the window, Harry slowly becomes aware of a distant sound, like a trumpet or a dying animal, impossibly loud, distance indeterminate. The air seems to shake with it. One or two other customers look up, while the rest continue reading or drinking or talking, conversation unabated.

Just then, the sky opens up in a storm, sudden and fickle. Rain pounds the roof in sheets, washing the streets clean of the day’s filth, insinuating its way into every crack and crevice available. 

Harry sneaks his way into the store, though not as well as he would have hoped. The bell jingles when he opens the door, and he has to stifle a laugh.

“We’re about to close!” Nick calls, before actually looking up from straightening the shelves. “Harry! You’re all right, you can stay. Lock the door behind you, would you?”

“All right,” Harry says, laughing, already feeling better despite not accomplishing anything for the day. Nick looks slightly dishevelled, hair even more tousled than usual. “Hi,Grimmy.”

“What brings you ‘round, then?” Nick straightens, walking over to Harry and leaning against the wall, eyebrows raised absurdly.

“Wanted to see you,” Harry admits, licking his lips, which suddenly feel dry. Thinking how he must look makes his cheeks go a bit red. He’s damp, bedraggled and exhausted, none of it a good look. “Sorry to drip on your floor. Can I -”

Hesitant, Harry lifts his hand to the corner of Nick’s mouth, touching his face, smiling shyly at him.

“Forward,” Nick says, fondly, but he leans in anyway, apparently fine with all Harry’s forwardness. With their mouths millimeters apart, he drops his voice low, near a whisper. “Nice to see you, Harry.”

“Hi,” Harry agrees, tilting his head to the side, pressing his mouth to Nick’s just lightly. He’s less hesitant, now, sure at least that Nick’s interested in him. It’s a comfort, knowing Nick will be here, steady and sure even with the whole city seeming to slowly fall apart. London’s been here longer than Nick, but it doesn’t feel like it.

Nick’s lips are warm, a touch dry. Harry catches a bit of dry skin with his teeth, almost laughs, then bites at Nick’s mouth properly, feeling suddenly fierce.

But Nick smiles at him, puts a hand at the base of Harry’s skull, hands tangled in Harry’s curls, and keeps pulling back just a little no matter how many times Harry chases him until Harry settles down, takes it easy.

Harry feels his heart rate slow, though it’s still pounding in a way he’s all too aware of.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Nick says. “That all right, or do we have to sully the poor shop with our filth?”

“It isn’t filth,” Harry says, defensive.

Nick raises his eyebrows.

“All right, all right,” Harry says, laughing a little, sheepish.

“Bed’s more comfortable anyway,” Nick points out, taking Harry’s hand and leading him to the back of the shop, up a tight spiral set of stairs opening into the same little flat Harry woke up in weeks ago.

The decoration is a little spare, the walls made of old stone, the floor dark wood smoothed by countless years. Harry toes his shoes off as soon as the door’s shut behind them, liking the feel of the planks under his feet.

On the low table in the main room, there’s a paper, spread open, the front page blaring its headline, Parliament Staffer Found Dead, going on further to say it’s connected to the mysterious string of deaths, investigations underway, advising citizens to stay in at night. All the usual.

Nick catches him looking, and shrugs. “I knew him.”

“Yeah?”

“Old friend of mine,” Nick says, almost absently, going to fold the paper up and toss it in the bin. “Partly thanks to him that I got the post here. Well, him and Moylesy and dear Finchy, of course.”

“Matt Fincham, or the cat?”

Nick winks, and Harry laughs, then feels a bit inappropriate, laughing when he’s just found out one of Nick’s friends is dead. Nick shrugs, still smiling, mouth a little tighter. “It’s awful, isn’t it? Makes you feel sort of penned in.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. He lowers his head.

With a sigh, Nick steps in, puts his arms around Harry’s shoulders. He drops his head, too, slouching a little to press his forehead against Harry’s. “Sorry, mate, sorry. That’s boring; no one wants to - I don’t mean to get you down.”

Nick actually looks shaken, like all of this is getting to him. Harry is briefly terrified by that fact, then feels awful and guilty at that thought, and dreadfully selfish. Nick’s allowed his own sadness and fear; Harry isn’t the only one troubled lately. He has to remember that.

“Sorry,” Harry says, quickly. “Sorry, no, you’re allowed to - like, you can … talk? Or if you want me to do anything, I don’t know. Wouldn’t do much to get you flowers, would it?”

Nick laughs. “Now that it’s not a surprise, it wouldn’t.”

“Fuck off,” Harry says, aiming for levity, sounding a little sad instead. He gives up on talking right around then, because he’s not doing any good and can’t sort out what he’s meant to say, so he kisses Nick, walking him backwards toward the little bedroom.

The door’s open, bed unmade from the previous night. Harry pushes Nick down against the sheets, climbing on top of him, somewhere between overjoyed and miserable.

He’s glad to be here, glad he’s allowed this. Nick seems glad of it, too. This time, they manage to get undressed without interruptions, and Harry gets Nick’s pants off without any inopportune knocks on the door.

By the time he’s got his mouth around Nick’s cock, he’s feeling a lot better, less worried. Nick has his hands in Harry’s hair, and is mumbling stupid, incoherent things about how pretty Harry is. At least Harry can do this. He’s quite good at it, he thinks. Hopes, anyway.

No one’s ever complained about his blowjobs, and he doubts Nick’s going to be the first to do so. He takes Nick in quick and deep, lips wrapped ‘round him. Nick’s eyes are wide, watching Harry. Harry would smile at him if his mouth weren’t otherwise occupied. Probably his eyes convey enough, anyway, because nick’s expression goes a bit soft and soppy.

“Harry,” Nick says, meaningless and important, petting Harry’s hair. Harry almost sighs through his nose, wanting to lean into the touch. He’s glad he’s here, glad to finally be able to get with Nick. It’s taken long enough, altogether too many distractions and interruptions.

Nick looks so grateful, too, like he’s equally happy to be here. Harry wonders how long it’s been that Nick’s wanted him, if Nick was interested by the weird kid who trailed after him from a distance, adoring and not quite sure of himself.

Right now Harry feels quite sure about himself, more than he has in ages. His jaw aches a bit as he bobs his head up and down on Nick’s cock, sucking him off with aplomb and enthusiasm alike.

He sucks Nick off, makes him come and swallows it down, sitting back on his haunches to grin.

“Damn and fuck,” Nick says, with a touch of frustration that makes Harry nervous for one strange second before Nick laughs at him. “Get up here and kiss me, would you?”

Nick doesn’t actually wait, instead sitting up, getting an arm around Harry and pulling him in, settling his hand at the back of Harry’s head to lick his own taste out of Harry’s mouth before pushing him down on the bed, both of them turned around, Harry’s head at the foot of the bed now with Nick hovering over him all heavy and warm.

Nick is just as clever as Harry had hoped for, with his mouth and his fingers both. Harry’s been waiting long enough that, admittedly, it doesn’t take much for him to get off.

With all the distraction of late, he hasn’t had much chance to get himself off, either, too frustrated and worried to bother. For once, he relaxes, sinking down into the mattress with sleepy-eyed contentment, and Nick holds him close.

Harry doesn’t have anything to complain about.

Not that sleeping with Nick fixes anything, in the long run. 

There’s still the faint echoing sound, at all hours, of something gone wrong, of things that slip in and out of proper existence to flit back to whatever other plane they came from. Restless dreams disturb Harry’s sleep, and he wakes up first, stiff and sore from Nick sleeping half on top of him.

Nick’s managed to drool on his shoulder, too, which Harry laughs off, though it’s not as funny as it would be if London were actually safe. Sunlight makes its muted way through the window, and with a sigh, Harry gets up and goes to make tea.

Not much later, Nick follows after him, and makes a vain attempt at breakfast. Nick’s not that good of a cook, and Harry’s not in much mood to help.

“You all right?” Nick asks, concerned.

“Didn’t sleep well.”

Nick looks away, then shrugs. “Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s not your - it wasn’t you,” Harry says, stumbling over his words a bit. “It’s the, you know, the spirit of the times.”

“Ah, yeah.” Nick makes a face. “Not a very good spirit, these times.”

Breakfast is mostly quiet, with a few shy smiles here and there. Harry keeps his foot pressed up next to Nick’s under the little table, liking the contact, another little reminder that Nick is there and real.

Nick starts telling some pointless little story about a terrible customer he had the other day, and Harry’s half-listening when he gets an idea, has a sudden stirring of resolve.

“Nick,” he says, cutting Nick off partway in.

Nick pauses, startled. “Yes?”

“You said that friend of yours worked in Parliament. And I know you know - well, everyone,” Harry says. “Could you - get the word out, maybe, because I’ve been trying to figure out what the fuck is going on with this city, and nobody seems to know, but Liam said the other day, when I was talking to him, that like, the - monsters or whatever, that they must be eating magic, right? And that made sense -”

“So you want to see if anyone’s got a clue?” Nick asks, bemused. Harry swallows his next sentence, laughing a little at himself, and nods. “Sounds like a start. Eating magic, though, really?”

“That’s what it looks like.” Harry closes his eyes, breathing out through his nose. London’s intricate weave of magic, usually bright and ever-shifting, has grown dull. It’s still vibrant, still moving, but there are frayed spots, patches where color is dulled, missing threads. Like a tapestry trying to repair itself, rather than one that’s ever-growing and ever-changing. “I think Liam’s right, anyway.”

“All right, well. I’ll ask,” Nick says. “What are you planning, Harold?”

“I want to stop it. I - like, I’m just Harry, but I think.” Harry stops, ducking his head a little. He smiles, self-conscious, letting his hand rest on his arm. That’ll be fixed soon, at least. “It can’t hurt to try, right? Or not any worse.”

“What if we can’t find anything out?” Nick sits back in his chair, a frown flickering across his face for a moment before he catches himself and smiles again. He nudges his foot against Harry’s. “Still going to play hero?”

“Probably, yeah,” Harry says. “Wasted all week in the library trying to find anything out. Interplanar biology’s such a shit science. No one knows anything, it’s rubbish.”

“Not your fault.” Nick kicks at him a little harder, and Harry laughs, feeling awfully charmed.

This sudden resolve has Harry feeling a lot better, actually. He’s got Nick at his side - probably - and Niall was right, anyway. It’ll be an adventure, something to tell the kids and grandchildren about, if Harry has any. Even if he doesn’t, he’s sure Louis or Zayn or someone will oblige, somewhere down the line.

Just clearing the dishes away has Harry feeling much more cheerful, and he moves quicker, light on his feet. He holds his head high, puffs up his chest a little. When he checks over his shoulder, Nick’s watching him, and Harry grins wide and hopeful.

“We’ll be all right, yeah?” Harry decides, suddenly.

“Yeah, of course.” Nick doesn’t sound as convinced, but there’s time enough for that. 

As a child, Harry never had any particular dreams of heroism - he’d end up cast as the damsel in distress to be saved, if there weren’t any girls around that morning and often even if there were, or he’d be the helpful page as another friend pretended to slay whoever was playing the dragon that day. Still, there’s something appealing to it.

If nothing else, it’s given Harry some actual purpose and direction. “So have you got any other friends in Parliament?”

“I might, I might not,” Nick says. “What for?”

“Can we get a look at one of the - you know, of the bodies.”

Nick lets out a surprised laugh, and sounds incredulous. “Really, Harold?”

“Maybe I could find something out, about the, you know. The eaters.”

“Oh, you’ve given them a name, now, have you?” Nick gets up, taking a plate from Harry to wash it off better than Harry was doing.

Harry frowns, briefly. “I can -”

“It’s my flat, I’ll clean up after myself.”

“I just want to help,” Harry says. 

Nick pauses, then looks away. “Sorry. Bit insulting, that. You’re right. I just - you’re not looking well lately, is all. And I don’t just mean the obvious. Feels like I should do something about it, is all.””

“I’m just tired,” Harry says. “And it’s been, you know it’s been weird.”

“Take care of yourself, though.” Nick steps into Harry’s space, cupping Harry’s face in his hands. He closes his eyes, lowering his head in a way that’s almost reverent. “Or let me. I’d quite like if you’d let me try.”

“Weren’t you the one who said you can hardly even care for yourself?”

“Well, yeah. That’s all right, though. Long as you let me, like - brush your hair and feed you sweets, I don’t know.” Nick laughs, shaking his head. “You’ve got me feeling all protective, Styles, it’s awful. I’m shit at relationships anyway. No idea what to do at all.”

“No, that’d be - that’s all right.” Harry’s cheeks go a bit red. He’s been worried about Nick pitying him, but he doesn’t think that’s what this is. It doesn’t feel like pity, anyway. “Right, yeah. Sorry.”

“You’re not alone, is the point, right? You’ve got your friends, you’ve got me.”

“Right.”

“Am I making assumptions I shouldn’t?” Nick asks, suddenly sounding concerned, looking Harry full on. He takes a step back, puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders. “Tell me off if I’m wrong.”

“No! No, it’s good, it’s - yeah. Dunno what you’d be making assumptions about anyway. What are you talking about?”

“Fucked if I know,” Nick says, and shakes his head. “Right, though. You wanted to see some bodies.”

-

As far as Harry can remember, he’s never actually known anyone to die. One of his grandparents passed away when he was very young and he only half-remembers the mourning for that, scattering the old man’s ashes to the sea. Otherwise, he’s been quite lucky in avoiding death.

That means the smell comes as a surprise, as does the pallor of the face. Harry leans over the body, laid out on the spotlessly gleaming metal table of the morgue, a sheet covering it from the neck down. He has trouble thinking of this immobile thing as a person.

Harry’s got a cloth tied around his nose, sprayed with a touch of Nick’s cologne, because it was the only thing they had on hand to help block out the scent. It doesn’t make for pleasant associations, but at least it’s something vaguely familiar, however underscored it is by rot.

Harry looks to the coroner, who’s leaned against the wall and staring up at the ceiling, arms folded, foot tapping the ground. “Excuse me.”

“Yeah?” The coroner scowls, looking down her nose at Harry in a way so haughty as to be almost cliche. “This going to take long?”

“Lovely friends you’ve got, Grimmy,” Harry says, low.

“Charming, isn’t she?” Nick agrees. “S’not her I’m friends with, it’s the girlfriend. That one’s all right.”

Harry clears his throat, says, “Is it all right if I take off the - the sheet?”

“Go for it. Long as you’re not stealing organs, I don’t much care. We’ve got hundreds of these to deal with.”

This particular body’s unclaimed, an older man with no friends or relations to mourn him. He’ll be cremated eventually. For now, he’s being kept on as evidence, and spends most of his time locked in a chilled room down in the basement. At the moment, he’s in a less-chilled room, still in the basement, actually getting looked at.

Harry draws the sheet back, and then turns away to keep from throwing up. Nick rubs at his back, murmurs platitudes.

Harry looks back. The man’s lost both hands, the flesh looking strangely unraveled, like it’s been pulled off a spool. There’s a cut down the center of his chest which looks similarly frayed, though not pulled out in quite the same way.

Harry’s not here to gawk, though. He’s going to put his fortune-telling to good use, he hopes. He takes a deep breath, and lets his vision slip sideways, looking at the overlay of magic, the way this place connects to the city.

He can see all the threads that wrap around himself and the coroner, and the perpetual blank spot - like a buttonhole, almost - where Nick is, occasional threads of ambient magic meandering into that space only to loop back or veer around.

Nothing’s as bright as it should be. The dead man’s body is void of even the residual traces you’d expect to find on a corpse - not that Harry knows this from experience, but he’s heard, at least, that the last vestiges of it generally take a while to leech back out into the surrounding world, decomposing similarly to flesh.

That alone seems to prove Liam’s theory. According to the coroner, this one’s typical of the others, in terms of physical condition. The hands get eaten off, sometimes there’s other mutilation, and then the victims are left dead in the streets. 

No one but Harry’s survived yet, and Harry thinks it’s pure luck that the thing got interrupted while trying to eat him. In any case, there are still the slightest trails of magic to be found tailing off from the blank emptiness - not the man’s own, of course, but of his surroundings. Harry tugs at those threads, looking back along them, feeling the shape and color and weave to find where the man went.

“Died out back the museum?” he asks, absently. The coroner confirms, and Harry keeps going. The threads he’s following seem brittle, and prone to snapping off in his hand, losing the trail immediately in a way he’s never seen before when tracing backwards like this.

Harry lets out a breath. “All right. Well. You up for a trip to the museum, Grimmy?”

Nick’s voice is dry. “Oh, I just love history.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Harry says, polite as he can be to the coroner.

“You done then?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “We’ll be off.”

They take the tube, which is all-but empty. It starts raining just as they get off to trudge the rest of the way there on foot. Neither of them’s thought to bring an umbrella.

Nick keeps to Harry’s left side, and holds his hand. Harry pulls in close to him, pressed up against his side.

“What do you think you’ll find?”

“Dunno,” Harry says. Nick hasn’t asked why they don’t just go back to the street where Harry lost his hand, and trace that. Harry’s glad not to have to answer. If he had to, he’d say it’s been too long, which it probably has. Mostly he just doesn’t want to think about it.

Better to sort out the circumstances of a stranger’s death than his own ill luck. He just wishes they’d checked out the body of someone who’d died a little further away from his usual haunts.

They hang around behind the museum for a bit, but Harry can’t actually find anything - just more fraying threads, and a certain melancholy in the air. Nick watches him pace back and forth for a while, then says, “You want to go?”

Harry shakes his head at first, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s. Or - d’you want to go to the museum?”

“I should get back to the shop,” Nick admits.

Harry laughs. “Right, yeah. Of course. All right. I’ll go on my own. See you later?”

“If you’re in, I might come by yours later,” Nick says, cheerful. “Or did you have plans? I know you’re in high demand these days. It’s just there’s a party tonight, and I thought it might be nice to get out again, if you wanted. Or I can go myself, that’s all right. Whichever you like.”

“No, no, I’ll come with. That sounds - that’d be good, I think,” Harry decides. “Yeah. That sounds like fun. See some people besides you and my friends. Let’s.”

Nick kisses him, quick and sweet, right there in the street, then heads off. Harry watches him go, then goes up the steps to the museum and spends most of his day there, allowing himself a break.

Every sculpture, every painting that has some monster in it, or some attempted representation of ghosts or angels or other, more esoteric things has Harry sort of transfixed, as if he might find something familiar there, some clue.

He doesn’t.

That night, Liam and Louis make him give the mechanical hand another go. He makes it a little longer this time before the pain’s unbearable, but there’s still something not quite right in the metallic feeling of it, too much like he’s set to become part of it instead of the other way around. It needs his magic to operate, and all he can think of, as it consumes power, is that night he lost his hand in the first place, the way the eater hooked a claw in his magic somehow and pulled it from him.

Nick comes by before they’ve quite gone, while Harry’s sitting slumped in a chair watching the two of them bicker, and drags him away from it.

“You looked miserable,” Nick says, putting an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. They’re trying to help. And it’s good, it’ll be nice when it works.”

“If you say so,” Nick says. “I’m half a mind to just take you home and tuck you into bed, feed you soup or something.”

“No, there’s a party that needs us.” Harry widens his eyes, exaggerated. “How could anyone possibly have fun without us there?”

“You make a sound argument. Very well reasoned.”

-

Two days later, Louis and Liam have - they claim - figured out the problems with the mechanical hand. This should, Louis says, be the last time they have to go through this, and after, Harry will have a workable hand.

Supposedly, anyway.

“Can we do this in the morning?” Harry asks, a little plaintively. “Or upstairs at Nick’s.”

“You’re spending a lot of time with Grimshaw lately,” Louis says.

“Yeah.” Harry can’t help but smile. He’s over the paranoia, at this point, and is fairly sure Nick genuinely likes spending time with him. Having that assurance, another person on his side - not that he doesn’t trust his friends - comforts Harry.

Getting laid doesn’t hurt, either.

“Yeah,” Harry repeats. “He’s all right, though, isn’t he? Been quite nice to me. He’s helped out a lot.”

“He bought you some wire.” Louis rolls his eyes. “Which Liam could have done himself.”

“And he got me into the morgue.” Harry crosses his arms, feeling a bit defensive. “What’ve you got against him, anyway?”

“He just …” Louis pauses, searching for the words. “He strikes me as the kind of person to do what’s most convenient for him at the time, is all.”

“He’s nice, though. I don’t see how hanging ‘round with me all the time is convenient.”

Louis shakes his head. “You’re almost ten years younger than him, and you’re pretty. You don’t see what might be in it for him there?”

“Fuck off.”

“Sorry,” Louis says. “Sorry, that was mean. Look. We’ll get you fixed up. I don’t care what you and Grimshaw get up to, just - be careful, is all.”

Harry nods, chewing on his bottom lip and looking away. “Right, cheers. That was helpful.”

“Sorry,” Louis says again.

-

The next day, as promised, Louis and Liam both come by. Nick’s stayed the night at Harry’s, at Harry’s request, and he’s the one to get the door.

“You’re early!” Nick exclaims, cheerful enough. “We were just finishing breakfast. You two ate already, right? Or did you want anything?”

“No, I’m fine,” Liam says. “I’d rather see if this works than waste any time.”

“Efficient. Right down to business.” Nick nods. “Good show, there, mate.”

Louis doesn’t say anything to Nick, and Nick ignores him, as well. Harry doesn’t bother putting the plates away before he gets up and shuffles his way over, still tired and yawning.

At least he’s dressed. He had presence of mind enough for that. “Morning, Louis. Liam.”

“You ready?” Louis asks, almost terse, before deciding the better of it and getting Harry in a hug. Harry yawns against his shoulder. “It’ll be all right, think we’ve got all the kinks worked out now.”

“We can’t guarantee it won’t hurt, though,” Liam points out.

“Thank you, Liam. That was absolutely necessary,” Louis says, as he lets go of Harry. He keeps one hand on Harry’s shoulder, looking at him searchingly. “You look tired. You all right, mate?”

“I think I woke up - five minutes ago?” Harry laughs. “I’m allowed to look tired, aren’t I? Fuck, it’s early.”

“Near ten,” Louis says, with a halfhearted glare in Nick’s direction. “You up late?”

“Yeah. Slept all right, though.” Harry pauses. “I haven’t been lately, so that was nice.”

“No one has been,” Liam says. Harry gets his first proper look at him for the morning, and Liam looks downright exhausted, circles under his eyes. He catches sight of Harry, all concerned, and smiles reassuringly. “It’s all right, though, doesn’t matter. Things’ll go back to normal soon.”

“I’m going to make sure of it,” Harry agrees. He feels protective, defensive, not feelings he’s used to. Usually he just wants to feel like he’s the one being defended, a bit scared of the responsibility. Honestly, most of him still does, just wants someone to hold on and tell him it’s all right, but he’s going to see this through.

Even if it’s the death of him, which is something he’s resolutely avoiding even considering.

“Let’s make history, then,” Nick says, cheerful. “There anything I can do?”

“No,” Louis says.

“Hold my hand?” Harry asks.

“Which one?”

Harry cracks up. Louis rolls his eyes.

Liam says, “I assume he means his left.”

“Thank you, Liam,” Nick says, insincere; Liam either doesn’t notice or brushes it off. Harry assumes the latter, because Liam is entirely too patient. He doubts Nick means anything by being slightly standoffish - it’s early yet, and Louis isn’t helping matters any.

Almost by memory, Harry goes to sit at the kitchen table, and unpins his folded-up sleeve, rolling it carefully up to just above his elbow. He hasn’t bothered with a waistcoat, or really anything other than his shirtsleeves yet this morning, early as it is.

Nick, of course, is dressed up in his jacket and everything. Harry gets a bit starry-eyed just looking at him, while Liam and Louis get out their tools and scrap wire and the hand itself, now much refined, more intricate than before.

The hand is a surprisingly beautiful piece of work, with its delicate joints and cabling, made of clean, polished metals, with a plain plate of metal covering the back of it now so its inner workings aren’t quite so exposed, at least from that angle. The palm is still bare, of course, naked machinery stark and visible.

The backs of the fingers are plated, too, like armor, stronger than Harry himself. He doesn’t think that’ll be so bad. It’s better than the first iteration, when it was still raw and uncovered. He can wear gloves over it - Liam said so, that they’d tested it, and Harry still can’t decide whether or not he will.

If he wants to hide it, or let it be obvious what he’s got, that one part of him is no longer quite human but instead a mechanical construct. That sets him to wondering, and as Louis starts to open up his skin, starts to work at his nerves, Harry grips NIck’s hand tight and says, “So if you can make a hand.”

“Yeah?” Louis sounds distracted, not really listening.

“If you can make something this little and intricate, you could make - a whole construct, almost. The hand’s got to be the hardest, hasn’t it? You could make a man this way. One out of metal.”

“That sounds proper terrifying,” Nick says, laughing. “Harold, you should write scary stories. Tawdry pulp. Bet you’d make a load of money off it.”

“Harry’s stories are shit,” Louis points out. At least Harry has something to focus on besides the pain.

“He’s quite funny, I think,” Nick says. “Well, most of the time. Been rather serious lately, though, haven’t you, young Harold? There’s other concerns, of course.”

“Sorry,” Harry says. He scrunches up his face in exaggerated apology, looking as mournful as he can, eyebrows drawn up and in as he pouts. “I’ll try and be funnier next time something tries to eat me.”

“You’re to deliver at least one witty joke per hour from here on, Harry,” Nick tells him, “until you kill the bloody thing. Things. However many there are.”

“Knowledge’d be lovely, wouldn’t it?” Harry says, wincing. He almost screams, but doesn’t, choking down the sound, when Louis starts connecting wire and nerve, magic knitting them together. It’s worse this time. “Careful there, Louis.”

“Sorry,” Louis says, absent-minded still, too focused on the work. “If it’s going to be permanent, I’ve got to be a bit more careful, and it’s going to hurt a bit more.”

“Oh, because it didn’t hurt before.”

“Not what I meant.” Louis falls quiet again.

“It’s quite a nice hand,” Nick says.

Harry can’t come up with anything clever to say. He holds Nick’s hand, and Nick scoots his chair a little closer to Harry’s, sitting to his left. Nick leans in, presses his lips to Harry’s temple.

“You’re all right,” Nick says, low, just for him. “Taking it better than I would, anyway.”

Harry laughs, a bit strained. “You’d cry like a baby.”

“I would. Just like an infant. Is - fuck, that looks awful.” Peering around, Nick watches where Harry can’t bear to. “So that’s what the inside of a person’s wrist looks like. You know, I would have rather not known that?”

“It takes getting used to,” Liam says, shaking his head. He’s on standby at this point, letting Louis do the work, just there to see it done. “I don’t think I could do that kind of magic. I’d make myself sick.”

Louis pauses a moment, inclining his head upward but not looking at anyone in particular. “Can everyone shut up?”

“Sorry,” Nick and Liam say at the same time. Harry doesn’t bother to apologize.

Instead, Harry closes his eyes, and watches the magic of it, the careful little connections taking place. On its own, the hand is unmagical, but Louis’s careful little workings surround it, and each connection that occurs bleeds a little more magic into the metal.

Even though Harry can see the threads of his own magic weaving into it, bringing it slowly but steadily awake, he doesn’t feel drained by it this time. Something settles into place as Louis manipulates skin and bones, as Louis connects filaments of nerve and wire into a seamless and baffling merger that sinks hidden away into Harry’s flesh.

The pain goes away, or Harry stops noticing it. A dizziness sweeps over him. He can feel Nick brush at his hair, say something quiet to him, but he doesn’t listen. He feels steady.

With a snap like thread being cut, Louis makes the final connection between Harry and the delicate bit of machinery he and Liam have designed, and then sits back on his heels a moment to look at his handiwork.

“Just a moment, I want to …” Louis starts, rubbing at Harry’s wrist, a last little bit of magic trembling its way over the line where skin meets metal, sealing it off. “There we are. Make sure it works?”

Harry turns his new hand over, looking at it. First clenching and unclenching his fingers, he lets it hang limp a moment, then curls his fingers, cups his palm like he’s holding a ball or a wine glass. It doesn’t hurt, other than a lingering soreness of abused bone and muscle in his arm.

“That’s bloody weird, isn’t it, mate?” Nick says, low, somewhat awed. “Congratulations, Louis, you did something impressive for once.”

“Fuck off, Grimshaw.” Louis laughs, shaking his head. He’s smiling. “You all right, Harry, not going to pass out?”

Harry considers, and his eyes widen a little. “No. I’m fine. Thank you.” He presses his hands together, and startles a bit.

“You should be able to feel with that one, if I got it working right,” Louis says, almost shy.

“Yeah. Like I can tell … how hard I’m pressing. It’s cold, but then my other hand’s warm, and - that’s weird. That’s really weird.”

“You could probably magic it warm, but that seems a bit of a waste,” Louis says.

Harry slides forward off the chair, where Louis’s still knelt in front and just to the side, and pulls Louis into a hug. He presses his face into Louis’s hair. “Thank you.”

Louis pats his back, awkward. “You’re welcome. All right, now, all right. That’s enough.”

Though he still needs to eat, drink some water and get properly dressed, Harry feels awake, more alert than he has in days, and giddy with it. His chest feels full-up with joy, thrumming with excitement. He wants Louis and Liam gone, wants to grab Nick by the collar and drag him back to bed.

“Can you guys … I still need to eat lunch,” Harry says. “Or breakfast. What time is it?”

“Early,” Louis says, with an amused shake of his head. “You want to get lunch, then? We should go ‘round Niall’s, fetch Zayn, too. Get everyone together!”

Harry pauses, feeling his cheeks flush a bit with guilt. “Another time? I’m still tired.”

“Right, right,” Louis says. “Finding Zayn’s always a chore anyway. Fuck knows where he goes.”

“Lay off it,” Liam says, easily. He’s quite calm this morning, despite Louis’s apparent agitation. Harry is glad that at least Liam is unswayed, though he wonders what’s gotten into Louis of late. Not that a few trying days are going to put Harry off of Louis, but he’d really rather Louis relax.

Then again, his job’s more stressful than Harry’s by far. That’s probably a fair part of it. The job, coupled with the sheer amount of time he’s spent on extracurricular projects like helping construct an entire hand for Harry - probably that’s done him in. The shadows under his eyes look almost bruise-like. Harry feels guilty at only just now noticing, and he looks away again, goes to see what he’s got in the kitchen.

“We should all get together soon, though,” Harry says. He reaches up, getting flour down from a cabinet. Maybe he’ll make crepes. He’s got a little honey to drizzle on them. Part of him wants to cook for Nick, too.

Nick’s been so patient with him, almost unbearably so. Harry wants to repay that in whatever little way he can. A nice breakfast seems a good start. He smiles to himself.

The way his metal fingers clatter against things fascinates him. He’d stop fussing around in the kitchen, but he wants Louis and Liam gone and can’t bring himself to say so.

“We’ll just get going, then,” Liam says. “See you around, though. Next week?”

“Next week,” Harry agrees, as he turns on the sink. He feels weightless, joyful. He should be more grateful, or at least show his gratitude more, but he really is tired, and really does want breakfast.

Nick and Liam say their goodbyes while Louis hovers impatiently near the door. Harry shoots a smile at him over his shoulder, and Louis does at least smile back, looking weary.

As the door closes, Nick comes to stand behind Harry, leaning lightly against him. Nick’s arms wrap around Harry’s waist, and Harry sighs, leaning back against him. “Hiya, Nick.”

“Good morning,” Nick says, lightly. “I didn’t say that before, did I? So there, good morning, hello. Nice to see you again.”

“You saw me all night.” Harry laughs, and then sets to mixing batter. “You know how much easier it is to cook with two hands? I mean, I managed, but …”

“I think it’s the recommended method, yeah,” Nick says. “Two-handed cooking. You could’ve wrote a book, though. Your very own cookbook.”

“About cooking with one hand?”

“Special recipes. Tactics,” Nick says. He presses his face into Harry’s hair. “Ah, don’t listen to me, I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore. You smell nice, did you know?”

“I’d hoped so.” Harry shuffles sideways, Nick still holding on, to get the pan out and ready to cook the crepes in. “I’m making you breakfast for once.”

“I hope you’re a better cook than I am.”

“Nick!” Harry feigns offense, then wiggles free of Nick’s grasp so he can move a bit more nimbly. “I swear it, on - I don’t know, on something very important.”

“Like your mum?”

“No, no. Well, all right, I can swear on her, if I have to,” Harry says. “I don’t feel to clever this early, sorry.”

“However will I survive?” Nick falls back, sitting at the table to wait while Harry cooks. He keeps up a friendly stream of banter, talking about the last time he had crepes, and then meandering onto the topic of restaurants and parties and friends. 

Just listening to him is soothing, and Harry’s cooked up enough for both of them before he even realizes it.

Nick takes a bite of his crepe, then stops and stares at Harry, mouth thin and eyes quite wide.

Harry leans back in his chair, away from Nick, startled into a defensive position. “What?”

“These are fantastic,” Nick says, gravely. “I can’t believe I haven’t made you cook for me before. Well, I can believe it, but that’s not going to be allowed to stand.”

Harry looks away, his smile stretched out wide to the point of discomfort. “I can be convinced, probably.”

“And I’ve got ways of convincing,” Nick says, easy. His gaze and voice are both warm, and that makes Harry happy, too. 

Making Nick happy seems like reason enough to try and save the city.

-

Harry sits on the counter at the shop, watching Nick pace the store. Nick’s examining half the items on the shelves, it seems, and occasionally ducking behind the counter to look at more things stashed away back there.

A few times, he ignores customers entirely, and so Harry ends up managing the till now and again.

“Nick,” he says, trying to keep his voice even and hide the amusement in his tone. He does a poor job of it. “Calm down. I’ll be all right.”

“Here,” Nick says, and hands Harry a sword. “There you go.”

“I don’t need three swords." He sets the latest sword aside, with the other two Nick's tried to foist upon him. Then he opens his legs a little wider and tugs Nick in closer by the collar. “I don’t know that I need a dagger, either. Or a ritual knife, honestly. I’m going to use magic.”

“These are weapons and they’re magic,” Nick points out, standing between Harry’s spread legs. He puts a hand on Harry’s thigh, curving his fingers into the meat of it. “I want to do something useful.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“It almost ate you last time. You only got saved because of a cat.”

At that, the shop cat hops up onto the counter to rub itself up against Harry’s side, meowing pitifully. Harry rolls his eyes, and drops a hand to scratch at its ears. The cat’s having none of that, making a growling noise before sauntering off, head and tail head high and imperious.

“I just wasn’t ready.”

“You’re not ready this time, either! Come on. Harold. Take at least one sword. Or, oh, I’ve got an enchanted gun in the back. Think it’s possessed by a demon. So I’m told, anyway, the bloody thing won’t work for me, but you could -”

“I don’t want a possessed gun, Grimmy,” Harry says. He puts a hand on both sides of Nick’s face. Nick jolts a little, flinching to one side, then eases up. Harry supposes the metal must feel strange. He’s getting used to it, but it can be unnerving to look at, sometimes.

He really should just wear gloves.

“Just come with me,” Harry says. He leans his head forward to press his head against Nick’s. “It didn’t notice you last time. I want you there.”

“I’ll bring a sword.” Nick scowls at him, but his expression softens out quickly as he sighs. “Sorry. Sorry. I’d just prefer if you stayed alive a little longer.”

“You had to bring that up.”

“Well, it’s true. I quite like you, actually. Why didn’t we do this sooner, again? Remind me.”

“I don’t know.” Harry rubs his thumb across NIck’s cheek, back and forth. “It was a good idea, though, wasn’t it?”

“What if I had two swords? Like a pirate.”

“Have you ever used a sword?” Harry thinks to ask, finally. He taps a finger against Nick’s nose.

“Well, no, but it can’t be that hard. You just sort of - hack at things. Stab them.”

“No swords.”

“Yes, swords.”

Harry rolls his eyes, and pushes lightly at Nick’s chest until Nick backs off and he can get down off the counter. “I promise it’ll be all right.”

“At least - oh, here, look. Got a necklace. It’s meant to be lucky.”

Harry doesn’t even look at it. “Fine, I’ll wear your necklace.”

That sets Nick off on a tear, finding accessories to weigh Harry down with instead - rings and necklaces and bracelets, all meant to protect from harm and ward off danger and bolster magic. Harry stands by the counter and humors him, laughing a how fastidious and fussy Nick’s being.

Nick doesn’t generally seem the sort. Harry still wonders what Nick gets out of all this - a good story, maybe. Inside information to trade off for information of his own. The Shop is useful not just because of the goods it sells, but for the information there to be bought and sold, as well. With his friends, Nick’s privy to a lot of secrets, and Harry knows, in a vague way, that Nick is quite capable of both getting and spreading information when he wants to.

Some further agenda seems likely, but Harry hasn’t sorted it out yet. He used to worry over it. Now, he thinks Nick is solidly on his side, whatever else his goals may be. Nick’s obvious concern makes him happy, though, makes him want to do things for Nick in return.

“All right,” Harry says, as Nick weighs another two necklaces in his hands, looking too focused. “That’s enough, Nick, I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“If you insist.”

Harry smiles again. “Then let’s go.”

“Right, oh, you wanted me to come with you. Let me get a better jacket.”

“Nothing too fancy. What if we have to run?”

“Then I’d rather do it in style.” Nick disappears upstairs, and Harry leans next to the door, eyes closed. He could very well be going headlong into his death, yet he’s somehow unafraid.

Waiting makes Harry impatient. He wants to move, and he bounces on his toes, pacing back and forth for a few seconds. Running off into the night to chase monsters is a miserable idea, and a dangerous one at that.

So many people have died. While Harry isn’t worried about himself, he is worried about Nick, and thinks, suddenly, that having Nick along is a terrible idea. Just the thought of Nick getting hurt makes his throat tighten, and he shakes his head. He’s not going to let that happen.

There’s only one way Harry can be sure Nick won’t be hurt, and that’s if Nick’s not there.

Harry steps outside while Nick’s still upstairs. The night air is cold, damp with fog. Grey tendrils writhe aimlessly with no wind to move them, like the feelers of some foreign creature - something from the south seas, or the Americas, maybe, with too many limbs all built of unfathomable aspects.

Fog is just water vapor in the air. Harry knows that, but he can’t help but step lightly. He taps the fingers of his right hand together just to hear the metallic sound they make. Not yet midnight, and no one’s about, the gaslights guttering pitifully, the fairy lights gone entirely, leaving the street dark.

Shadows drift and wander, some with clear causes and others not. Little movements catch at the edge of Harry’s vision. The magic here has gone pale and threadbare, worn out, more like tattered rags than the wear of a favorite garment.

Harry hesitates just down the block, turning to look back, but he can’t see more than a few buildings back through the fog. The fog seems to muffle sound, too. Nick calls out, “Harry?” from somewhere that can’t be far away, and yet it sounds like something from a dream. Harry doesn’t answer. Part of him wants to, but a greater part of him wants to keep Nick safe and away from what he’s about to do.

He can feel the magic shifting somewhere not far off, the texture of it changing, like it’s being bitten off, and then a few threads end quite abruptly.

Harry breaks into a run headlong towards it. He has no idea what he’s going to do. He isn’t even that good of a runner, honestly. It’s only youth and decent health that have him going as quick as he is. 

The sky opens up, rain pounding the pavement. That slows Harry up a bit, unexpected as it is. There have been dark clouds for weeks, and intermittent rain, so no good way of knowing when it’ll start up again. This time a wind whips up, too, driving the rain against Harry’s face.

The weather itself seems determined to slow Harry’s progress. Trying to go on through the rain, down slippery streets, he has no idea why he was in such a hurry anyway. Usually he hesitates, takes too long to do anything, thinking things out first, yet here he is in the pouring rain hoping quite suddenly and absurdly that his new hand won’t rust.

He’d wanted Nick to come, too, and instead left him behind. He doubts Nick will like that, and Harry wishes he’d said something. Still: here he is.

And there in the street in front of him, barely visible through the rain and the gloom of night, is a body. Harry almost trips over it. Crouching down, he can see something dark flowing from it, swept away by water and lost in fog too quickly to stain the pavement. No hands, of course.

He looks up, and the shadows in front of him part. There’s a sound, like the blast of a horn somewhere very far away and yet somehow right in his ear.

Harry has no idea what he’s doing here, and nearly turns to run, but manages instead to hold his ground. The noise keeps ringing in his ears, resounding over and over, grating against his consciousness painfully.

Still, he sees it coming, sees the blind reach of a claw, cutting through the world’s fabric to get at him like an ineptly-handled scalpel. He rolls aside, then wonders, at that groping, awful movement, if he can’t trick it.

Harry calls up a little fairy light. It refracts off the ragged form, hunched and shuddering, seemingly too far for its limbs to reach Harry yet still grasping at that improbable distance. With a dumb snuffling noise, it reaches for the light, and the sound of it resounds again, louder suddenly.

The little light goes out, the magic that had made it dragged back - and then vanishing into the ragged shape of the creature, disappearing through it. Harry’s eyes widen.

Nick managed to learn a few things about the eaters. They’re not native to London, nor to earth, nor to the mortal plane in general, instead living somewhere well below, part of the same uncanny ecosystem as the things that live a moment ahead and devour those who see the future. 

The ecology there must be awful indeed, Harry thinks, worse than anything out of the ocean’s depths or the Americas. Harry had thought, until this moment, that the entire thing was here, but he realizes that it’s not.

This is like a child reaching blindly through a hole in a fence, groping blindly for whatever treasures it can find. It sweeps toward Harry again. He tumbles backward. This time, at least, he’s not caught off guard by it and frozen in place. He overcomes the awful sound it makes, and just rolls out of the way as a claw arcs through the air toward him.

Harry has an idea. A stupid, awful idea, but one that’s better than rolling around on the cobblestones and tripping over his own feet trying to dodge, which is all he’s got right now. He shouldn’t be here, he knows, should be safe at home or at Nick’s, letting someone, anyone, more capable handle this.

If he closes his eyes, he can see himself, and the vacant region the creature takes up, the frayed edges moving and rippling around it as it navigates space that is foreign and still unfamiliar to it. Harry is a bright spot, his magic boiling up hot. The creature orients itself by his pattern, tracking the afterglow of every movement.

Harry wishes he’d allowed Nick to give him a sword. Even the possessed gun would have been nice.

What he does have, in lieu of any proper weapon, is his magic and his wits, such as they are. The former’s quicker than the latter. Using magic against something that eats the stuff for a living seems stupid, but maybe he can choke it.

Starving the beast clearly won’t work here, not when it’s reaching through effortlessly and taking whenever it likes.

Harry wonders, suddenly, as he falls on his arse and scrabbles backwards along the pavement, how many others have tried to do what he’s doing now. This has lasted long enough, and Harry isn’t particularly outstanding in any way. Someone else must have faced off against this thing before.

More than a few of the dead over the past few weeks probably tried exactly what Harry’s attempting now, which is a miserable, sobering thought. He doesn’t know why he thought before now he’d be the first to do this.

The wind picks up. It blows toward the empty space the eater consumes, and Harry decides - since he’s already being nigh-suicidal - he may as well stop running in circles. He jumps. The ragged form topples, and then disintegrates, almost exploding into the air.

Something smells like blood and tears under Harry’s hands, liquid thick and viscous and definitely not just rain. He gets a suggestion of a face, of exposed bone on a long, predatory skull, with jagged teeth and wild, rolling eyes.

That part of it comes apart like jelly when he tries bashing a fist into it, and then there’s nothing under him but instead it’s on his back, heavy and suffocating, its claws reaching toward him.

Harry remembers again his idea to try and choke it. The claws seem to close in from all around.

He focuses all his magic, channeling it all toward one point - that finely crafted metal hand of his, with its wonderfully conductive copper and gold wiring - feeling sick and strained and shaking.

He’s never done this before, not tried to use his magic like this at all. That one spot grows brighter and brighter. The wind whips up. Harry can see through the hole in the world, and the other side is behind comprehension.

Sounds flicker and flash, multi-colored and blurry; in front of his eyes he can see, somehow, the terrible noise of it. There are eyes, everywhere, thousands of them. Somehow, impossibly, the one pleasant thing about it is the smell, like peppermint, like the smell of the countryside after a brisk and sudden rain.

The eater spreads out before him, impossibly intricate, with too many limbs to count, all of them folding and twisting in too many directions, bending in impossible directions. Its face is at once insectoid or beaked, bony or with heavy jowls, brightly-colored and dull. The claws reach toward Harry, and he reaches right back, through and past.

He wishes someone else were here to see this.

The eater trembles. Its jaws work.

Harry shoves his hand down its throat, or what passes for a throat on such a beast. He can feel it trying to swallow, feels it tear and scream and whine and tremble.

Someone is holding onto him. The eater tries to draw him in, but there are arms around Harry’s waist, and he can feel his hair wet from the London rain, curls plastered to his face. He can feel the ground under his feet.

Humans aren’t built for other planes, and he feels dizzy, pulled around, and he thinks it’s only that steady presence behind him keeping him from being ripped apart entirely, while the eater screams and chokes and gags, and he keeps shoving magic at it, more and more. He doesn’t even know where he’s getting it from, at this point, should be long since out of it. This is enough that he should have lost his mind or passed out, whichever came first.

He needs to see this through, is all. The city comes first. Then he can collapse, or whatever it takes.

“Harry, I’ve got you,” Nick says, low in his ear. Harry’s not entirely sure where he is. The street, of course, but whether it’s the same street, or somewhere else, he doesn’t know.

With one last resounding trumpeting sound, reverberating through the ether, the eater falls back, and the hole torn between its world and the normal one pulls it back eagerly. There is a howl of wind.

Nick keeps Harry steady, and Harry doesn’t fall through. He stumbles backwards, instead, Nick faltering somewhat with him.

That should be it, but Harry sees, in the world’s magic, that there’s still a gap, a tear, a place for the eater to come back through. He doesn’t know how many there are, or if it’s dead. He can’t see through to that other place any more.

What Harry wants to do is fall asleep. What he does, instead, is move his hands through the air, pulling at threads of magic worn threadbare and thing, and treats the task just like he would repairing a hole in his favorite trousers. He brings the threads around and around, sewing the magic up, mending it.

He’s shaking.

“Shh,” Nick says. “Shh.”

Harry’s almost done. Just one last stitch, then tying it off.

Then he slumps back in NIck’s arms, saying something that hopefully sounds like Nick’s name or “thank you” or anything relevant - he can’t be sure - and passes out.

-

Harry wakes up in Nick’s bed again. At least it’s familiar this time, and this time, Nick is lying next to him with a cup of tea and the morning paper.

“Hello, Harold,” Nick says, cheerful, when he notes Harry’s awake. The sunlight through the windows is quite bright this morning, brighter than it has been in a long while. “How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Harry decides, letting his head flop back down against the pillow. He picks at the shirt he’s wearing absently. It’s too large for him. One of Nick’s, evidently, which is almost enough to make him smile. He makes a vague effort at the expression, then gives up. “Everything hurts. Nick, I think I’m going to die.”

“That would be awfully stupid of you.” Nick sets his tea down, folds up the paper, and rolls onto his side to lean over Harry. “After all that, what does you in is being tired.”

“Tired and in pain.” Harry feels petulant, and wrinkles his nose. That only spurs Nick to grin wider at him, then kiss his nose. Harry sticks out his tongue. “My head hurts. Why’s it so bright?”

“The sun’s out, Harry!” Nick laughs. “Finally, right? I thought it’d be gloomy for the rest of time. Don’t know what Henry’s going to do about his end-of-the-world party, though. That’s meant to be tonight. Did you want to go?”

“I don’t want to leave this bed ever again.”

“Here.” Nick hands his cup of tea to Harry, who takes it with a grateful sigh. “Wake yourself up. I guess if you’d rather rest that’s all right, but really, now. Who takes a day off after saving the city? No one I’ve ever known.”

“I didn’t save the city,” Harry says, taking a sip of tea, and lingering with the cup just below his nose so he can inhale. The smell is comforting. “Just fought a monster.”

“One that was making life here miserable. You saved London from being drearier than usual, anyway. Give yourself some credit. At least a little bit.”

“All right.” 

“Did you want breakfast? I could go fetch some from the shop across the way -”

Harry yawns. “I think I want to sleep.”

“I’m going to go get breakfast anyway.”

Before Nick even gets up, Harry’s back asleep again, feeling heavy and wool-headed.

When he wakes up again, Nick’s sat beside him again, with a book this time instead.

Harry frowns at him, wrinkling his brow. “Shouldn’t you be doing your job?”

“There’s a closed sign on the door, I think people will be able to sort it out.” Nick offers a lazy shrug with his response. “I’ll open up at some point, just wanted to be sure you were still breathing. No comas or anything.”

“No coma,” Harry agrees. “I wish, though.”

“You should’ve had breakfast,” Nick says. “Then you’d be all right. Hey, no! Stop that!”

Harry starts punching Nick’s shoulder, playful and lazy about it. Nick laughs and bats his hands at Harry to stave him off, then ends up pinning Harry to the bed entirely, hands on Harry’s wrists holding him down.

“You’re supposed to fight monsters, Harry, not me.”

“You are a monster,” Harry tells him, trying to keep a straight face. It’s difficult with Nick cackling at him like a jackdaw. “You are! Keeping me awake. Being - entirely too handsome. You’re awful, I hate it.”

“You do not,” Nick says. “You mooned over me for years.”

“It wasn’t that long!”

“It was,” Nick says.

“You never said anything,” Harry points out, as realization dawns. His eyes widen. “Not once. You knew!”

“You were a student.” Nick kisses Harry’s forehead, then his nose, then both cheeks, studiously avoiding Harry’s mouth even as Harry tries to chase after him. Nick keeps giggling, and it’s infectious. Harry’s chest is shaking as he tries not to laugh. “Strange as it may sound, I prefer not robbing the cradle. You looked quite young!”

“Monster.”

Nick draws a little, frowning at him, and for a moment Harry’s heart sinks - “Don’t you tend to kill monsters?”

“I’ll kill you, all right,” Harry says, quite cheerful as he sneaks a hand toward Nick’s side and finds that, in the right circumstances, Nick is quite ticklish.

“Stop that!”

Harry grins. “Make me.”

-

Somewhere else, very far away, a creature slinks back to its nest, trailing oily black blood as it goes to feed the last of its store of scavenged magic to its starving brood. 

They’re not satisfied - they never are - and the eater doesn’t have enough energy to fight back when its own young descend upon it, pulling it apart while it’s still alive.


End file.
